


Swimming Pools and Rugby Balls

by Buttsuoka_Rin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, First Kiss, First Time, Friendship/Love, M/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttsuoka_Rin/pseuds/Buttsuoka_Rin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Yes, he'd lusted after his best friend. Yes, it had been going on for quite a few weeks now, ever since they'd fallen asleep in the dorm lounge and woken up in a tangle of limbs, and John's heart and stomach had done funny little flips. It was mildly frightening, because to his mother, his father, and everybody that knew him, John was straight.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title: Edge of Seventeen
> 
> I deleted my other school AU fic, mainly because it was crap. This is mostly based upon a roleplay. Sherlock is 16 and John is just turned 17.
> 
> Feedback is welcome.

John had precious time off from his Rugby training. It was probably the first Friday in a long line of weeks that he wouldn't be going back to the dorms at half nine in the evening, covered in muck from head to toe. Instead, John was going to spend his Friday evening watching his best friend practice for his swim finals. 

The swimmers were already in the water when he arrived. He wasn't sure which one was Sherlock, and it wasn't until he'd found a good seat with a proper view of the pool that John noticed his best friend's head bob out of the water. It wasn't hard to spot him seeing as he was the palest swimmer there. With a little smile he waved.

Sherlock didn't wave back; his back was to John, toes braced against the little recesses in the wall that formed the ladder to get out of the water. He hauled himself up and forward, out of the water and onto the side of the pool. It wasn't until he'd shaken some of the water off his long limbs and accepted a towel from a teammate that he noticed John waving. With a small half-smile for his friend, he draped the white towel around his shoulders and padded over on bare feet to talk to the coach. Despite the swim cap holding his tousled curls in place, a few had escaped at the nape of his neck and clung to the pale skin there in wet little tendrils. And, despite the towel and having shaken off most of the water, there were still little drops making their way down the backs of his legs.

It wasn't often John actually got to watch his friend swimming and it was even rarer that he got to see him in his swimming _togs_. Every time he saw just how the speedos clung to Sherlock's hips, water trickling down his body, John's mind started to wander. Every. Time. Yes, he'd lusted after his best friend. Yes, it had been going on for quite a few weeks now, ever since they'd fallen asleep in the dorm lounge and woken up in a tangle of limbs, and John's heart and stomach did funny little flips. It was mildly frightening, because to his mother, his father, and everybody that knew him, John was straight.

And until recently, he believed he was too.

Shaking away the thought, John stood up and hauled his backpack over his shoulder to make his way down to the lobby to wait. As usual, he had a hot tea in one hand for Sherlock, and a bounty bar in the other for himself for the walk back.

It was a good twenty minutes before Sherlock came back down, lean, silken limbs once again hidden under his modest uniform; pale green shirt with the school's oak-leaf crest on his cufflinks, soft wool vest in a deep gold, and black trousers. The only bit of Sherlock's clothes that weren't standard issue were the shoes, an old pair of ratty canvas trainers that no one had been able to make him give up for love or money. It had ended up being easier to let him keep them than trying to make him get rid of them. 

Sherlock's hair was still wet from the shower, and he wiped a drop of water off his forehead as he padded up to John. "You showed up at practice late today, did your last class run long again?" His voice was pitched softly, so the low baritone wouldn't carry across the lobby. He was a bit self-conscious of his voice; it tended to have some... Unwanted effects on certain people.

"Biology with Mr. Langdon. He kept me back to discuss grades and extra lessons." John gave a little shrug and passed the tea into Sherlock's lean hands. He had dressed down since school ended, opting for leaving his green shirt mostly undone to show off the white t-shirt underneath, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. John hated the uniform more than anything, despite the clean cut state he wore it in during his classes. "How was your practice anyway? Are you definitely doing finals next month?" he held the door open and waited for Sherlock to leave first. It was a warm evening for February and the nights were growing shorter. John loved the transition from Winter to Spring, and showed his appreciation by inhaling the smell of fresh cut grass.

"I'd say there's a ninety-five percent chance that I will be, unless Douglas' performance increases exponentially in the next two weeks." He seemed grateful for the tea, even if he didn't say anything about it, and curled his long fingers around the paper cup to wark them. Warm night for February or no, it was still a bit chill outside and Sherlock noticed the cold more than most. "However, I don't see that happening. He has been getting marginally worse over the last few weeks, and I don't think it will be long before he's cut from the team. He's a liability more than an asset at this point." He slowed for a second to take a sip of tea without slopping it down the front of his shirt. Apart from a soft, content hum for John having finally gotten how he took his tea right, he said nothing else.

John smiled and half turned to catch Sherlock's eye. "Well you know I'll be there to cheer you on all the way." He stopped to wait for his friend to catch up. When he finally did, he unwrapped his Bounty bar and handed one of the two chocolate ovals to Sherlock. "It's still a bit early. Do you want to stay around town before we go back? Or are you tired?" John paused to push the button at the lights.

"I have some physics papers that I have to work on and email in before the night is out, but you're welcome to spend the evening with me in any case. Lab reports are terribly boring work, after all." Bounty bars weren't his favourite, but he felt it would be rude to refuse the offer of the sweet. So, he took it and ate it with a bit of a fixed smile, ignoring how the sickly-sweet coconut inside made his teeth ache.

"Of course." The green man flashed ornage, warning the pedastrians to move fast. More out of reflex than anything, he took Sherlock's wrist and made a speedy dash across the road. They made it just in time for the man to turn red and the cars to start moving again. He didn't realise at first that his hand was still connected to Sherlock's wrist (maybe a little closer to his hand actually), and when he caught his friend's eye again, he let go with a soft apology. Clearing his throat, he led the way down the riverside with the dorms in sight.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed just a fraction when John pulled away so quickly. He'd had his suspicions for a while, at least that John had some sort of juvenile infatuation with him, but he'd had no concrete proof. This was hardly enough to be drawing on, but it was at least the beginning of what Sherlock needed to prove his suspicions. As they walked, Sherlock tossed his by-now empty teacup into one of the conventiently placed trashcans along the footpath. "I was planning to go into one of the dorm's lounges to work, but I think they'll be to noisy. Would you be opposed to going back to my room? I have my laptop there."

"Not at all. I suppose I can finally catch up on some biology study before the night is out." John had been in Sherlock's room many times before, and vice versa, but he rarely stayed there past midnight at the weekends. It wasn't that he _couldn't_ , seeing as the school didn't set curfews for the weekends, but there were just some things that you couldn't do when staying the night with your best friend. Sherlock had an advantage for sleepovers though; his room had two beds even though it was just him in it. John did have a room-mate, however, and David was a nice enough bloke.

"Oh, good." Sherlock managed a smile, not his usual little half-smile either, and turned up the path toward his building. John was in a different building, but he wasn't far enough to prevent him walking home should he choose to. Tossing his swim bag back over his shoulder, Sherlock dug in his pocket for his keycard and swiped it into the little unit beside the door. If nothing else, their school was well-versed in their security; you couldn't get into the dorm buildings without a keycard or a punch code, and only faculty got the codes.

Sherlock's room was always incredibly neat compared to John's, with books stored away neatly by size and subject on little shelves around the wall. The room istelf was quite big, with a bed on either side, with a desk area beside a large wardrobe and some floor space. John dropped his bag onto the spare bed and sank down onto the end of it. He'd been sure to take off his shoes too, storing them away under the bed so he could fold his legs up under him. Opening his bag, he let his books drop onto the bed. He didn't intend to actually stay the night, but that could easily change. All he'd have to do was slip out of his shirt and trousers anyway. 

"I might have to borrow your laptop quickly when you're done. Mr. Langdon emailed our final grades."

"You can do that now, I have to find my notes." He opened the cubby above the laptop shelf on the desk, digging around in it until he found a binder packed with neatly filed looseleaf. Moving away so John could get at the desk, he kicked his shoes off and laid back on the bed so he could go through them for the lab notes he needed. "If you need the password for that let me know, I'll type it in for you. I don't think you'll have too much luck figuring it out on your own. No offense."

"It hasn't changed from 'nynaeve al'meara' has it?" John rolled his eyes at his own attempt at pronouncing the character's name. Trust Sherlock to name it after one of his favourite characters from The Wheel of Time, or some sort of computer keycode. After trying the former with no avail, he spun around on the swivel chair. Sherlock looked very relaxed leaning back on his bed; a different sight than the usually sharp student sitting in class. It was a sight that people rarely got to see... Actually, John wasn't sure anyone else _but_ him got to see Sherlock like this more than once in a blue moon. "Actually you know what, just tell me what it is and I'll type it in."

Sherlock gave a little snort and put his folder down, crossing the room to lean over John's shoulder and click the password into the computer. His hands moved almost too fast to follow, certainly fast enough that John wouldn't be able to figure out what his password was, then he sat back. It dawned on him, then, that he hadn't simply leaned in from the side to type it in, but he had leaned over John's back, one arm on either shoulder with his chest pressed into the back of John's shoulders and his cheek against the shorter boy's ear. How strange. Pulling his vest straight, he returned to his bed and stretched out on his stomach this time.

John had remained stock still at the movement. It felt... Nice, actually. Comfortable. Sort of like Sherlock fit there in a weird way.

"Thanks." He muttered, finally sitting forward when Sherlock had removed his (soft) face from his ear. He wet his lips and opened up his own email account. "Hm." He looked at the average grade that popped up on the screen. Not his best by a long shot, actually. "No woinder Mr. Langdon wanted to discuss extra lesso-" As he turned around mid sentence, John's eyes travelled straight to Sherlock's arse. 

Jesus, what was _wrong_ with him tonight! First he ogled his friend in naught but his swimming gear, then he nearly grabbed his hand in the street, then there was the fuzzy feeling of Sherlock wrapped around his back. And now this. "Um. Sorry, what was I saying?"

"You were talking about needing extra lessons before you almost swallowed your tongue. There's soda in the fridge if you feel you need a drink. Let me know when you're done with that, I've found my notes." Sherlock set aside a neatly clipped sheaf of papers, snapped the folder shut, and slid it under the foot of his bed to retrieve it later. Rolling over, he let his head hang off the end of the bed so he could watch John upside down. "Are you staying in tonight? I know some of the rugby team is supposed to be having a little party in your dorm, though I don't think that's quite your scene."

"Ugh no. The last thing I need is Greg sneaking in alcohol and getting us all in trouble." John stood and pushed a hand through his hair. He padded over to the mini fridge and retrieved a 7Up. "You don't mind if I crash here until they've at least been escorted back to their rooms?" He gestured to the laptop to signal he was finished, and sat cross legged at the end of the spare bed instead. He gathered up his biology books and marked his latest grade, a C, down on his notes copy; down from a low A grade the previous month.

"Not at all." Sherlock slid off the bed with all his usual grace, winding up on the floor in his usual sprawl of limbs. Padding over to his computer, he folded himself into the swivel chair and pulled his notes toward him. In short oder he had tuned John and the rest of the room out the only sound he was creating being the click of his fingers on the laptop keys. The one-page lab report turned into two, and into three, and by the time Sherlock sat back from the laptop a little less than an hour later he'd managed to churn out five pages, neatly formatted and crammed with text.

John had settled himself into his own routine; notes to his right, the biology book open in front of his folded knees, and his notes copy balanced on his knee. After a while of studying, John turned over onto his side, one hand tucked under his head and the other flipping through his notes. The sudden shift in Sherlock's movement made him glance over the sheaf of pages. "All finished, then?" It was already starting to darken out, and John reached up to flick on the bedside lamp.

"I should hope so... This turned out to be five pages. Much more than I was expecting to have..." Leaning forward again, he sent the email with the attached lab report to his teacher before swivelling his chair around to face John. Steepling his fingers in front of his mouth, he took a moment, just a moment, to study the boy he called his best friend. Then, with a low chuckle in the back of his throat, he padded over to the minifridge to fetch himself a can of apple juice from the shelf in the door.

Letting his notes fall away from his hand not to be seen for the rest of the night, John turned onto his back. "What?" He frowned at Sherlock and watched him go fetch a drink. He sat up and leaned back against the pillows, taking a moment to roll out his neck before taking off his shirt altogether. He tossed it into his schoolbag. 

"Nothing, John. Don't worry about it. It was nothing more than an idle thought that I found rather funny." He chuckled again, sitting down on the end of his bed with the can of juice dangling loosely from the tips of his long fingers. The thought that had occured to him was that John's attraction was not one-sided, though it had taken him this long to realize it. He was not well-versed in physical attraction, and certainly not to someone that he had long considered only his friend. While he wasn't quite as infatuated as he thought John might be, he could see the reasons behind his attraction to John, and the reasoning behind why it simply didn't bother him.

"Oh. Okay." John shrugged, nudging the corner of his biology book with his toe. He had long since finished his own drink, and he tossed the can skillfully into the little bin next to the desk. Finally putting all his books away, John stood up to nose around Sherlock's room; it was something he did often when he was up here. "Do you still have that copy of Aesop's fables? The pocket-sized leather one?" He stood up on tip-toe and caught sight of the familiar little book. "Oh there it is. I can't reach it."

"Hold on, I'll get it for you." Sherlock set his drink down on the corner of his desk and snagged the little book down, handing it to John before retaking his seat on the end of his bed. Normally, he would have needed something to keep his restless hands busy, but at the moment his mind was occupied with the issue of John's attraction to him. Obviously they couldn't act on it, not here where the dorm room doors had no locks and the walls were paper-thin, but he couldn't just ignore the mutual respect and attraction between them. He finally sighed and flopped backward onto the bed, his hands behind his head and his legs dangling off the edge.

Returning to his own bed - or rather, Sherlock's spare bed - John settled back against the pillows again, this time with one knee bent and the other stretched out in front of him. When he was sure Sherlock wasn't looking, he let his eyes slide over to watch his graceful form. The curls splayed around his head framed his face beautifully. 

Clearing his throat, he set the book aside and lay on his side again. What the hell was he to do about this? Sherlock didn't do... Well, he didn't do relationships. And john wasn't sure what his sexual preferences were. He didn't want to scare his only best friend away. Somewhere in his thoughts, a little frown creased between his eyes.

"You're staring again, John." Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, not even looking over at John to speak. Though, after a moment, he let his head loll to one side so he could look at the other boy. "In fact, you've been staring a lot lately, and spending more and more time coming to my swim practices... Is there something you'd like to tell me to just get it over with?" His hands were still behind his head, so he had to peer over his own elbow to see more than a sliver of John laying on the other bed.

The shorter boy swallowed thickly and turned head away as he felt his cheeks burn up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small chapter, just to get things rolling.

With a groan, John rubbed at his forehead. "Am I that obvious?" Sitting up, he pulled his knees up to his chin and tilted his head. "...Does it bother you?"

"It wouldn't be obvious to most people, but I am your best friend, John, and more observant than the average person." His gaze returned to the ceiling, since he knew if he laid there and stared at John he was bound to make him uncomfortable very quickly. "I will say, though, that it does not bother me. I am... Inexperienced in relationships, but I'm not unaware of my own preferences."

"Ah..." His tongue darted out to wet his lips and he nodded. John wasn't very inexperienced. He knew he preferred boys, but even still he'd dated about three girls since joining the school, and one boy named Victor about a year ago. Each of the relationships had ended badly. It left John with very little faith in his ability to sustain a relationship with _anyone_.   
Not to mention there was his father, who was constantly reminding him that he's such a strong young lad and girls must be pining over him. His father, who was so proud of his 'straight', rugby-playing son, would disown him if he knew the truth.

For some reason, and despite everything else, had a feeling that if he pursued a relationship with Sherlock - his best friend - he'd make sure not to screw it up. "Well... If I were to ask you out, what would you say? Hypothetically, of course." He unfolded his legs so he was sitting on the edge of the bed now, his t-shirt pulled tight across his boad shoulders and chest.

" _Hypothetically_ , I would have to say no due to current circumstances. Under my course load and the stress of your budding rugby career, it would be nigh on impossible to maintain any semblance of a proper relationship." Scooting up on the bed, Sherlock rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow; his uniform hung a little loose on his swimmer's frame, but was too short for his torso and left a tiny gap of white skin between his trousers and the hem of his shirt. "Besides, the beds here are notoriously creaky and the walls are paper thin. In fact, I'm almost certain that if my neighbours are home they can hear us talking."

Why did that make John's stomach knot up so much? Oh who was he kidding: of course it wouldn't work. 

"I suppose you're also out my league... Heh." He glanced down at his hands, which he'd been twisting in his lap. "So, hypothetically no. But what if the circumstances were different? Would you even consider it then?" He was treading around the edges now. And that sliver of exposed skin... If he could just muster up the courage to go over there and kiss him, it would be a first. Weeks of fantasizing about it was starting to push him over that edge.

Before either of them could speak out again, Sherlock's phone began to ring. "...Mycroft. I'm going to step out to take this, John." Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, Sherlock flipped up his phone and strode out into the hallway with a, "Brother. What _do_ you want?"

John was alone and he was sweating. Jesus, why did he have to ask that? Things were perfectly fine the way they were between them. He was sure they'd turn awkward now. With a sigh and a glance in the direction of the door, John crawled under his covers and lay down. There was a small television on top of the dresser across from the beds, so he turned it on and settled on some Australian soap opera; there wasn't anything else worth watching. Reaching down into his bag, John pulled out his glasses (for watching TV) and slipped them on, bunching up the duvet around him and getting comfortable. 

He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep for, or what time at night it was, but when John woke up he was no longer wearing his glasses. They sat in his case on the locker next to him, and the duvet had been pulled down and tucked in around him properly. The television was switched off but the lamp next to it was still on. Blinking the sleep-induced blur out of his eyes, John pushed himself onto his elbows and looked around. The other boy's bed was empty and unslept in.

"Sherlock?" He called out. A few seconds later and the door to the adjoining bathroom opened. Sherlock stepped into the bedroom wiping his mouth from the minty toothpaste foam. 

"Oh, you're awake." Throwing the towel into a dirty clothes hamper on the other side of the room, Sherlock nudged the bathroom door shut with his foot and flicked off the light. "You fell asleep so I just..." he gestured to the glasses and the TV.

"Thanks." John rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. So what now? Were they just going to let the subject from earlier drop? John didn't like this, the awkward wavelength that was brewing. "Look-"

"John." Sherlock raised a hand to silence him, and approached John's bed. He perched himself on the side of it and picked at the duvet absent-mindedly. "I never got to answer your question earlier."

"Which- Oh. Right." John could feel the blush creeping into his cheeks. "You don't have to."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let me finish." His index fingers tapped out an absent rhythm on the striped pattern of the duvet. His gaze flicked to John again, then back to his fingers. "I am not opposed to the idea of a relationship with you, John. In fact, I suspect I would rather enjoy it."

John couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face then. "Then... I want to try something." Sherlock probably could have guessed what he was talking about, but it didn't matter. He sat up straighter and fidgeted with his t-shirt, pulling it down at the hem.  
Sherlock wasn't quite so dense as to be unaware of what was going on; given their current conversation, the next logical step was... Well. 

Rather than letting John make the first move, Sherlock turned and slid both lean hands into John's hair. Then, with a little smile, he leaned forward to kiss him soundly on the mouth.

John's eyes widened briefly before closing, and he melted into the kiss. His hands found their way to his friend's waist and he slid his lips along with ease. It was nice; very nice actually, and John pulled back reluctantly a moment later. His cheeks were pink and he looked up at Sherlock through long lashes. "...Can we do that again?" he didn't want to move too fast, not unless Sherlock wanted to. John's hands stayed where they were on his waist.

While the kiss was... Enthusiastic, there had been no real heat behind it. Sherlock shifted himself further onto John's bed, no color in his cheeks and an almost puzzled expression on his face. Yes, he had enjoyed the kiss, but there had been something... Not entirely there. "Yes, I imagine we could do this again. So long as you kiss _me_ this time."

John's mouth curled into a little smile as he pulled Sherlock closer. He pressed their mouths together again. His hands slid up along his neck and into his hair, playing with the silky curls there. He applied more pressure to the kiss, even daring to swipe his tongue along his friend's lower lip.

Now this... This had heat, this had what the other kiss was missing. Sherlock inched closer until he was sitting right by John's side, laying his hands loosely on John's hips. He understood wanting John to take the lead; though only a year older he had worlds of experience over Sherlock and actually knew what he was doing. When his lungs began to cry for air, Sherlock sat back just enough to draw in a breath, colour rising in his cheeks.  
John found that it all felt a bit surreal. His lips were just a shade redder than usual and his hands were still in Sherlock's hair. He stroked the curls back from his eyes and smiled.

"So... Do you want to continue? Kissing, I mean. It's nice." He let his hands fall to Sherlock's shoulders again, fighting the urge to just pull his friend on top of him and kiss him silly, though that's something he'd often fantasized about.

"Perhaps we shouldn't. We both know that teenage boys cannot be trusted to stop at just kissing." Gently, Sherlock removed John's hands from his shoulders, kissing each of his fingers before letting go entirely. "I think it best that we stop for now. And it's... Just past two in the morning. We'd better go to sleep." He smiled slowly and wet his lips, doing a very good job of ignoring the unfamiliar heat pooled low in his stomach and tingling through his extremeties. 

"Perhaps you're right." John leaned forward to steal one more cheeky peck. Maybe Sherlock would even permit sharing a bed some time. It wouldn't have been a first; there'd been the school trip to Germany last year where they shared a double room. 

He watched as Sherlock slid off the bed and over to his own. He undressed quickly and slipped under his own duvet, looking over at John before flicking off the bedside lamp. 

"Goodnight John." There was real warmth in that and John couldn't help smile in the darkness. 

"Night Sherlock." Still smiling stupidly to himself, John turned over onto his side and closed his eyes. Before he nodded off, he found himself touching his thumb to his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeskip of two weeks after the first bit of this chapter.

John woke up late the next morning, judging by how bright it was despite the curtains being still drawn closed. He sat up, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbing the sleep from them. It was then that he realised he was alone in the room, with Sherlock's bed already made and his phone gone from the bedisde locker. He must have been called to swimming practice or gone for breakfast.

John sat up further and swung his legs out of bed. He found himself smiling to himself as memories of the kiss last night came flooding back to him, and he began to laugh to himself. To think it actually happened! In fact, John didn't _stop_ laughing until he pulled out his mobile phone, and then the laugh and all traces of a smile were wiped from his face.

_Missed Call: Dad - 09:49 am  
Missed Call: Dad - 10:00 am_

He stared at his mobile for a moment, then decided that whatever it was his father had to say to him could wait until he'd had some breakfast at least. He got dressed quickly and headed down to the breakfast hall. It was mostly empty save for about fifteen students, a few of them studying in one corner and the rest having breakfast. Sherlock was one of them (but breakfast for him was a cup of tea), and gave John a sheepish little smile when spotted. Motioning for Sherlock to wait for a moment, John prepared a breakfast tray of cereal with extra toast, and a cup of orange juice.

"Here, eat." John set down the plate of toast in front of Sherlock and sat in beside him. 

"But I have practice." Sherlock picked up a slice of toast and frowned at it. "Can't eat before swimming, John."

Rolling his eyes, John just pushed a plate of butter in the younger boy's direction. "Yeah, practice at half five this evening. I'm not kidding, Sherlock, eat something."

He couldn't help but smile at John then. The boy was so protective and good to him that it was a wonder Sherlock hadn't acted upon his desires earlier. Deciding to do what he was told for once, Sherlock tore off the corner of one slice and chewed on it slowly. 

"Good boy." John jibed, recieving a dig in the ribs from Sherlock. He chuckled. "I missed a phonecall from dad thismorning. Two, actually."

"Oh? What about?" John just shrugged and sipped at his orange juice. 

"I'll find out when I ring him back." He shrugged. "Probably wondering if I'm on the bloody National rugby team yet." He rolled his eyes and finished off his breakfast. That was the annoying thing about his father - it was all about rugby for him. Rugby and John's education. "Anyway, I'd better get going. I promised Greg I'd meet up with him for a run this afternoon. I'll uh... Catch you later, yeah?"

There was so much behind that sentence that was so new to the two of them. Under the table - and out of the sight of other people - Sherlock grabbed John's hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "Yeah. Now go, don't want to keep Greg waiting. And yes, before you ask, I'll eat it all."

John simply grinned.

 

***

John felt relef wash over him when his coach blew the whistle. It was always a thrilling feeling after practice, with the adrenaline still running through his system and the tight pull of the muscles in his thighs. "Good game, lads!" The coach slapped John on the back as he made his way to the bench. "Great improvement, Watson. Keep it up and you could find yourself captain." The coach dropped him a little wink before sauntering off. 

They had a five minute cool down session before they hit the showers, and John took advantage of that time to stretch and drink as much water as physically possible in one go. Nobody knew of his relationship with Sherlock yet. It had only been about two weeks since they'd began dating, so coming out to people was still on their to-do list. John was also very protective of Sherlock, which was a good thing when it came to the snarky comments sometimes thrown around about him. 

Like right then, for exampe. Anderson's nasal voice was unmistakable across the way.

"... and he got right up, in front of the whole bloody class, the little prat, and basically told me everything I had said was wrong! It's like he thinks he knows everything!" Anderson laughed, his little group of cronies laughing along with him, and propped a hand on the wall next to him. "He must think the world revolves around him! Or the solar system, anyway!" Another set of raucous laughter, then Anderson's eyes caught John, and he turned. "Oi, Watson! You're one of the freak's maates, aren't you? Is he always that messed up? Talking about how he can figure everything out just by looking at you."

John tried to push down the anger that was crawling under his skin. It wasn't the first time this week that this had happened, and John was growing increasingly annoyed with the little rat-faced git. Standing up from his stretches, he caught Lestrade's eye. He was probably the only other person on the team who didn't badmouth Sherlock around John. Throwing his water bottle into his gear bag, John strode towards Anderson. "Call my best friend a freak one more time, Anderson, and I swear you'll regret it." His hands curled into fists by his sides. "Personally, I don't think it's any of your fucking business what he's like. Oh, and he told me all about your little hook up with Sally behind the gym."

"I don't care if people hear about that, Watson. Donovan was gasping for it, y'know. I bet she'd even have slept with Holmes, given half the chance!" Anderson's little cronies started laughing again, nudging each other and giggling, and Anderson himself looked quiet smug about the whole affair. "You know I hear he's still a virgin? Sixteen and a _virgin_. In England! Must be somethin' really wrong with him if he hasn't gotten himself laid yet!" The laughter, which up to this point had been merely mildly irritating turned into full-blown obnoxious, complete with the boys slapping their thighs and crowing with laughter. Some of them were nearly doubled over.

John could feel his fist curl into an even tighter ball and anger coil around his stomach. Hearing the little weedling talk about his boyfriend like he was simply a piece of dirt was infuriating. It wouldn't be long before... _Whack!_

John punched that smug little smile off his fucking face. "You little shit!" At least half of the rubgy team backed off at that point, some going silent, a few laughng even harder, and others shouting a chorus of 'ooh, Watson's getting defensive!' When he pulled back his bloodied fist, John could feel his face grow red hot.

One of Anderson's mates caught him as he fell back, clapping a hand to his bleeding nose and mouth. John's punch had been just at the perfect angle _not_ to break his nose; he had managed to split Anderson's lip quite nicely and potentially knocked a tooth loose. He spat out a mouthful of blood onto the grass and brushed his cronies off. For a moment, it looked like was going to punch John back, then he seemed to think better of it. 

"You're lucky, Watson." He spat again, more spit than blood this time. "I don't think I deserved that, but you did always have a hot temper."

"That's nothing. Insult Sherlock again, and you'll have a lovely black eye to match that split lip of yours." He snarled, spat onto the ground next to Anderson, and left without showering or changing. He was fuming and didn't particularly want to see Anderson's face again. "Fucking dipshit." He grumbled, taking out his ipod and heading for the school's own changing rooms. Surely nobody would be in there this late after classes. He took out his phone and sent a text off to Sherlock: _Just finished practice, want me to meet you anywhere? JW_

_Do you want me to come down? I'm not far. SH_ Sherlock had been close by, actually; he'd been on the roof of the sports' building having a cigarette, watching everything that happened. Moments after the first text, Sherlock fired off another one. I saw what happened. I was on the roof at the time. Is Anderson badly hurt? I wouldn't want you to get written up because of this. SH

_I think he'll live. For now. Actually yeah, meet me in the courtyard? JW_ John couldn't help but smile at that. Of course Sherlock had been watching. He himself was in quite a state of muck and sweat and would need a shower in case he got Sherlock dirty, but it'd been a whole day since they last talked and he wanted to see his boyfriend before curfew.

_I can meet you in the locker room if you'd rather. It's not long until curfew, and I don't think I could negotiate a reason for you staying in my room tonight. SH_ Sherlock darted down the stairs two at a time, tucking his phone into the cuff of his sleeve long enough to push open the main doors and run out onto the courtyard's grass. 

_Please do. See you in five, then. JW_ Hitching his bag higher over his shoulder, John headed straight towards the locker room. As he predicted, nobody was there at this hour. Good, it would give them some privacy for an hour or so. Plonking his bag down onto one of the wooden benches, John began to peel off his mucky gear as he waited for his boyfriend to arrive.

Sherlock trotted across the grass, ignoring the little bubble of warmth welling in his stomach at the idea of seeing John again after all day without him. Chuckling at his own faint sentimentality, he ducked into the locker room and let the door thump shut behind him. He crossed the tile floor, canvas shoes scuffing a bit, and sat down next to John on the bench. "Let me see your hand."

"Hello to you too." John grinned at the sight of Sherlock, but did as he was told anyway, holding his hand out. The splatter of blood on his knuckles had dried, and John was fairly sure it was bruised. "I suppose you heard it all too, yeah?"

"I didn't hear anything, actually. The acoustics were not ideal and I was too far away. I did gather enough to safely say that you were defending my honor, though." Licking the pad of his thumb, he rubbed some of the dried blood off John's knuckles. "Well, you haven't injured yourself too badly, thankfully. No more than a bruise." Setting John's hand down again, he crossed one leg over the other.

"He's just such a fucking prat, y'know? I couldn't sit back and let him badmouth you like that." John removed his jersey and stuffed it into his gearbag. "He'd think twice if he knew the almost-captain was actually the boyfriend of Sherlock Holmes." John walked over to switch on the water. He stood back and let it run warm.

Sherlock raised a finger, as though to voice an opinion on what John had just rattled off, then went quite silent in favour of ogling his almost-naked boyfriend. His hand dropped, and he leaned back on the bench to put his back against the wall. "I don't think you should use our relationship purely as an excuse to fend off petty bullies, John. Certainly not Anderson. He has the IQ of a turnip and all the personality of a rabid badger."

"It's still not right, though. Boyfriend or not, you were my best friend first, and nobody talks shit about you." John stepped under the spray of the water, letting it soak into his sore and tense muscles. Looking back out to Sherlock, he smiled lightly. He had half a mind to invite him in with him, seeing as they had the place to themselves. "Did you shower already today?"

"Yes, first thing this morning. And again at noon, after swim practice." He crossed his legs, resting one pale hand on his knee, fingers curled lightly against his trouser leg. "I don't think I need a third shower, John... And I certainly don't think I would get any cleaner, not with you in there." A dirty little smirk curled the corner of his mouth, and he uncrossed his legs. "I hope you don't mind if I watch, though. I could get used to this..."

"I have no obligations." John flashed him a grin and reached down for the little bottle of shampoo. He knew how Sherlock liked the muscles in his back, so he made a show of half turning in the shower so his back was to him. Next on the agenda was the shower gel. "You know, it's been two weeks now... I think Greg is starting to suspect something."

In the two weeks that they'd established themselves as a couple, the pair had managed to keep themselves low-key. It was hard to resist the urge to reach out and hold the other's hand in public, and even harder to stop the looks shared between them in class when one of the girls tried to flirt with John. So far it was only Greg who was suspicious. Next to Sherlock, Greg was a close friend of John's and they had a mutual respect for one another, both on and off the pitch. 

"Well, Gregory is marginally smarter than the average rugby player, yourself not included." Sherlock shifted again, resting one hand on each leg and tapping his left foot against the tile floor. "Will you be much longer, John? You know how they are about curfew around here. I wouldn't want you to get caught out of your building..."

"Not too much longer, no. Though I'm not exactly going to get into trouble if I don't get caught." John dropped a wink in Sherlock's direction and let the soap and shampoo run off his body. They hadn't seen each other fully naked yet, seeing as they both agreed to take things slow, but the way John's wet underwear clung to his skin, well, it was quite distracting. He released a deep sigh as the water relaxed him further and it wasn't long before he was ready to get out. He grabbed his own towel and switched off the water, stepping out and letting the water run off his legs and into the little drains below his feet. "I have something to tell you by the way."

"Oh? What is it?" Sherlock's tongue darted out to moisten his upper lip, and he almost unconsciously brought a hand to his mouth and swiped his thumb over his lower lip. Even if he was talking to John, most of his attention was on the lines of muscle that were a little too clear-cut for someone of John's age and stature. He finally tore his eyes away from John's abs, locking eyes with him.

John smirked and stalked over to his bag (which was conveniently beside Sherlock.) Most of the water had run off him at this stage, and he was left with little just droplets on his shoulder and neck. "Well, remember when dad called a couple of weeks ago to see how I was getting on? Well he called again last night. He's coming up for Saturday's match." He rummaged through his bag and pulled on some fresh underwear - which Sherlock turned away for- along with a pair of grey track pants and a white t-shirt. "He wants to see how well I'm doing and, I quote, 'meet the wonderful girlfriend I've been hiding.'" He frowned and shuffled closer to his boyfriend, settling his arms around the taller male's shoulders.

Hooking his fingers into the waist of John's track pants, Sherlock pulled him close enough to run the tip of his nose up the faint line of John's abs under his shirt. "So... Either you find a girl and pretend you're with her for Saturday or you come out to your father."

John sighed. "The latter is out of the question."

Sherlock tipped his head back to look at John, eyes narrowed in contemplation. "I know it'd be hard John, but-"

"No. No, Sherlock, you've _met_ dad." John sounded weary. "Remember when he talked about Harry?" 

That conversation had been awkward. Not only was Harry a lesbian, thus breaking their mother's poor heart, but she was a alcoholic. The way his dad spoke of her, telling John how she was a shame to the Watson name and family, had been enough to put the fear of god into him. To his dad, John was the son who would make the English rubgy team, who'd find a nice girl, get married, and give his parents some grandchildren. John, who attended the Monday evening chapel with the rest of his schoolmates, was a straight and god-fearing young man.

And what a load of lies that was. 

For Mr. Watson to find out his son 'took it up the arse' would be enough for him to disown John. And John knew that all too well.

"...Why does he think you have a girlfriend?"

At that, John groaned, letting his head slump down so his forehead was pressed against Sherlock's. "God... I sent him a text I meant to send to you." 

"Which one, John?" Pulling back, John flopped down into the seat next to his boyfriend and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He scrolled through his messages until he found the one, and held his phone out to Sherlock:  
 _I'm coming up to yours now. Put the door on the latch for me. And don't worry, I'm bringing you chap stick tonight! JW x_   
Sherlock couldn't help the small giggle that slipped out of his mouth, which he quickly bit down on his tongue to stop. Oh god, that was last week, when Sherlock's lips had become raw from the force of their kisses. 

"Sorry. But you sent that to your father?"

" _Yes._ " John whined and took the phone back. "I sent back 'wrong number' but dad thinks I'm hiding a secret girlfriend from him. He's insisting on meeting her!"

Standing up, Sherlock pulled John to his feet. He caught John's face between his hands and pressed a soft kiss against his lips. "Relax, John. I'll walk you back to your dorm."

"What about dad?"

"...Leave it for now. Today's only Wednesday and the match isn't until Saturday. We'll work something out by then." Instead of arguing, John just nodded. He was far too tired to deal with his father at the minute. "Come on, it's almost prep and you have a paper to finish for tomorrow." 

John wasn't going to question how Sherlock knew that. He'd become accustomed a good while back to Sherlock's uncanny knowledge about his life and found it fascinating. Grabbing his gearbag from the bench, he slipped his hand into Sherlock's and allowed the taller boy to lead him out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter. We'll have a couple of extra twists in the next one.

Saturday came around way too quickly for John. The week itself had been stressful, what with the extra evening practices for their first match of the season, and trying to cram in all the homework and study before bedtime. He only got the chance to see Sherlock in school at lunch time and, from what he'd been told, the boy had a plan. Not being able to see each other for more than 60 minutes a day meant sneaky snogging sessions behind the dumpsters or in the empty terrace of the school's football pitch, which often left them breathless and needing _more._

"Win this game tomorrow, Watson, and you'll find yourself the team Captain." Their coach was sure of it after their Friday night session, and had sent the team off with orders for an early bedtime and a fresh start in the morning.

Not wanting to be a physical distraction to John on the night before the first match, Sherlock invited him to a webcam chat:

_**(20:21) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk:** Webcam. I have a plan for tomorrow to help the situation with your father._

_**(20:21) Watson06@live.co.uk:** Good! Okay, just give me a moment to change out of this gear._

_**(20:22) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk:** Are you going to strip for me on camera, John?_

_**(20:24) Watson06@live.co.uk:** K ready._

_**(20:24) Watson06@live.co.uk:** Wait what?! No you wanker._

_**(20:25) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk:** Joke, John._

_**(20:25) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk is inviting Watson06@live.co.uk to a video conference. Accept?** _

_**(20:26) Watson06@live.co.uk has accepted. Now connecting...** _

"Hey." John adjusted his webcam so he could lean back in his chair. "So what's this big plan you've got for me?"

"Evening." Sherlock smiled lightly at his boyfriend. "It's Molly Hooper."

"What? Molly as in Biology class Molly?"

"Yes."

"...How is she your plan, exactly?" John adjusted the hem of his t-shirt and tilted his head. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"Come on, John, surely you're not that dense? Your father wants to meet your 'girlfriend'. Molly will pose as your girlfriend." John groaned and rubbed his forehead. Molly Hooper? 

"Oh god. How much did you pay her?"

"Enough to make her agree. Which wasn't a lot, actually, I think she rather fancies you Mister Watson."

"Shutup! She does not!" 

"I don't blame her, with your muscles and your big strong-"

"Shut up or I will murder you in your sleep."

"Tremendously ambitious of you, John."

"Piss off." But there was no venom behind John's words. He could see the mischievous glint in Sherlock's eye and John began to laugh. "Right, so Molly will pretend to be my girlfriend."

"Exactly. And your father will get to meet her and he'll congratulate you on your spectacular rugby playing. Everybody wins." Sherlock shifted his position on his bed then, lying on his side and propping his head up on his hand. He was still in his uniform and his hair was a tousle of unwashed curls.

"Right. I just hope you're okay with it." John sounded unsure.

"I'm fine with it. If I wasn't, I wouldn't have done this for you. Anyway, it's after half past, John. You need your rest."

"Yeah. Yeah I suppose I should go to bed. See you tomorrow?"

"Meet us down in the courtyard at ten. Your match doesn't start until noon so that gives us plenty of time to run things over. Now go on, off with you."

John chuckled and stretched out his arms. "Right. I'll give you a text in the morning. Night."

"Goodnight John."

_**(20:34) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk has ended the video conference.** _

_**(20:34) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk:** Oh, and good luck._

_**(20:35) Watson06@live.co.uk:** Thanks. Bye._

_**(20:35) Watson06@live.co.uk has signed out.** _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted Molly to share a room with Sally and Irene.   
> Oh look, it's Jim Moriarty *hiii*
> 
> Just for reference, Molly knows about their relationship.

Sherlock had spent the night finishing off homework and study. When that was out of the way, instead of getting out of his uniform and into bed, he had rooted through his wardrobe for some dark clothes. Not only was Sherlock a swimmer, he'd also had years of tae kwon do and judo classes behind him. So despite his thin frame, Sherlock was strong, flexible and agile. 

That, it seemed, came in handy for sneaking out of his room. It wasn't that he wasn't _allowed_ to be out on a Friday night, seeing as there was no curfew, but if he was caught sneaking over to the girls' dorms then he could well be caught and suspended. That was one of the main rules at Briarwood's to be followed at all times. Despite him being a top student - who managed to charm his way around the teachers' little fingers - there were just some things that even he wasn't going to risk talking his way out of.

Setting his clothes aside for now, Sherlock set his alarm for five in the morning. That gave him a chance to at least catch up some sleep, because John would no doubt chide him about his sleeping habits if he appeared tomorrow with dark bags under his eyes.

*

Molly wrapped her dressing gown tighter around her slight frame, pulling the ties into a loose bow around her middle. She was waiting exactly where Sherlock told her to, shivering in her nightclothes under the porch of the girls' dorm entrance. The only light source was coming from the school's courtyard, and Molly could swear she saw something moving in the bushes… No, it was only her imagination. Sherlock would appear in a moment and everything would be fine. She turned her head to the right towards the boys' dorms, looking for any sign of Sherlock's willowy figure approaching.

None yet.

It was ten minutes past five, and in the dark near-winter morning the sky was still pitch black. She was going to just give up, go back inside and wait for Sherlock to call her when he got here, when the bush started to move once more. Maybe it was a cat? It wasn't Sherlock; if he was sneaking around to get to her he wouldn't do so in the _bushes_. Was it… Was it Jim Moriarty? It wouldn't be the first time. Molly had often looked out her bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning to see the boy, a year younger than her but in the same classes, skulking around the courtyard as if waiting for somebody. The last time he'd done so he'd caught her watching, witnessed her whipping her head away from the window, and smirked at her the following week in French class.

Before Molly could decide whether she was going to turn back or not, she felt a hand touch her shoulder and spin her around. A hand was clamped over mouth to stop her from shrieking and Molly looked up at the person with her big brown eyes, only to relax instantly. 

"Mmf- Sherlock." She removed his hand from her mouth and scowled. "You frightened me!"

"Quiet, Molly! Come on, bring me to your room." If Sherlock had said that to her last year, Molly would have blushed seven shades of red, but not now: she was over her little crush on Sherlock Holmes. Besides, he was John's now. Nodding, she glanced back once more to check out the bush which had stopped moving entirely. With a frown, Molly shook her head and muttered to herself.

"Right… It's just down the hall here. Your lucky Mrs. Turner isn't on duty tonight." 

"Oh please. Both she and Mrs. Hudson are the easiest people to slip by."

"Yeah," Molly snorted. "And if you get caught you might as well expect the wrath of hell."

"Or a pair of little old ladies." Sherlock smiled and shook his head, trailing behind Molly until they reached her room. She wiped her keycard in the slot and unlocked her door, ushering Sherlock inside. 

"Sally and Irene are gone home for the weekend, luckily enough." Molly gestured to the left hand side of the room, where there were two made-up beds separated by a bedside locker. Molly's lilac coloured bed was on its own on the left hand side, pushed up against the wall and lined with soft toys; care bears, a stuffed cat called Toby, a doll with a raggedy dress and red hair, and several mini cushions.  
It was very girly, just like Molly, and a far cry from the two other beds. Sally's was blue and stripey, with her sports' bag peeking out from under it. Irene's bed was black and grey brocade patterned, and had two white silk cushions and a white silk throw at the foot of it.

Wrinkling his nose at the cascade of fabric and colour around the room, Sherlock strode straight over to the wardrobe, yanked it open, and peered at its contents. 

"Oh, mine's-"

"Yes, Molly, the three shelves on the left."

"How did you know?"

Sherlock smirked. "I looked. You're not the type of girl to wear tracksuit bottoms and football jerseys, that's clearly Donovan's end of things. _That_ section takes up most of the bottom shelves." Sherlock gestured towards them and then to the tattered trainers lined up beside them. "And Miss Adler's taste is very classy, hence the array of dresses hanging up and the high heels stacked over here. Oh, and not to mention the-" Sherlock had opened one of the right hand side shelves labelled _I.A_ and had immediately shut it again (with a mental note to delete everything he'd seen, especially the leather whip and set of studded handcuffs.) "...Never mind."

He shook his head and concentrated on Molly's side again. "Anyway, you're going to be meeting Mister Watson later today. We have to find you something flattering."

"Are you saying my clothes aren't flattering?" 

"No no, nothing like that Molly." He fixed her with one of his wide, put on smiles. "We just need to find something exceptionally flattering for you. How about..." He pulled out an armful of clothes and dumped them onto her bed to sort them into outfits. "Try some of these on."

Molly shuffled nervously on her feet, biting her lip as she rifled through the clothes. "Right but... Um, could you...?" She drew a circle in the air with her index finger, indicating for Sherock to turn around.

"Of course." He refrained from rolling his eyes as he turned around. Honestly, he'd seen the female body before. "But do hurry up."

*

"Urgh, fuck." John woke up to find himself hanging from his bed by his left foot, tangled up in his duvet. On the other side of the room Greg laughed, standing up and holding a hand out to John. 

"Good morning Sunshine. Alright?"

"Yeah, thanks mate." He allowed himself to be pulled up. "I must've rolled off in my sleep." Turning around he scrubbed a hand through his hair and made up his bed.

"All set for the match today, _Captain?_ " John had to smile at Greg for that, shaking his head as he pulled out his gearbag. 

"I'm not Captain yet, Greg."

"You will be when we win. And don't worry, Coach put Anderson as sub today."

"Thank God for that. Right, what time is it?" John pulled off his pyjama t-shirt and threw it in the clothes hamper, reaching down for a thermal vest to wear underneath his gear.

"Twenty to ten." Greg sat down on his bed. "Er... John?"

"Hm?" john hurriedly changed into their team's kit; white shorts (with thermal undershorts to keep warm) and a green jersey with _Briarwood's_ printed under their oakleaf crest. His name was displayed in white print on the back. It was twenty to ten, which meant John had twenty minutes to go get breakfast and meet Sherlock in the courtyard.

"Look, I'm not going to beat around the bush but... There's rumours about you and, well, y'know, Sherlock."

"Rumours?" John whipped around. He already feared that Greg knew about them, and to be told that there were rumours, of all things, floating about? Not good. "What... Sort of rumours?"

"That you're more than best friends."

"Wha-No! We're-"

"Going out. I _know,_ John."

"...You know."

"Yes. I've known for a while now. I'm not totally unobersvant you know." He stood up and approached John, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Look mate, it doesn't matter to me who you like. I just thought you'd ought to know that the rest of the team suspect something." 

"It's because of my outburst on Wednesday isn't it?" He received a terse nod from Greg, who gave his shoulder a squeeze and let his hand fall away. "God, I knew it. Urgh, look I have to go and meet him now. Don't... Don't tell anyone, alright?"

"I wouldn't. Go on, I'll meet you on the pitch at eleven for warm-ups." John gave him a thankful little smile. Grabbing his gearbag and a jacket, he left their room and headed down to the breakfast hall. 

On the way there, he passed a short, black haired boy skulking in the corridors. It could have been just his imagination, but John was sure he saw the boy smirking at him. He let the experience slide and pushed on, ignoring the boy's echoing chuckles.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might hitch the rating up to M...  
> Also, it's October in the story, just for reference.

"It's twenty past and she's still not here." Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently on the ground and looked around the courtyard. The only people to be seen were some first years gathered on the benches. "I told her to be here at ten! And she's not answering my texts..."

"Maybe she got caught up?" John offered. "Or slept in."

"...Maybe. God, this is tedious." The taller boy huffed and started to pace towards the girls' dorms. John followed behind, wondering what the hell they'd do if Molly wasn't around or was sick and couldn't make it. He had to admit it was odd; Molly Hooper was always the student who was completely organised in the things she did. 

"Sherlock, we can't go in!"

"That's why I'm going in alone. I can slip by Mrs. Turner's office unnoticed. Just wait out here, John." He turned to face the sandy-haired boy and smiled. "Go on, sit down. I won't be long." The group of first years had stood up to leave and were walking away, paying no heed to the couple. Taking John by the wrist, Sherlock pulled him closer and bent down for a kiss. It was soft and chaste, so unlike their fast, heated snogging sessions during lunch-times. 

"...You'd better hurry up. I have to be on the pitch for eleven."

"And you look so _delightful_ in your rugby gear, John." Smirking, Sherlock pulled away rather reluctantly and turned, leaving John a little pink-faced in his wake. 

Once inside, Sherlock turned down the opposite hallway to avoid walking by Mrs. Turner's office. The hallway on the ground floor in the girls' dorm was square, so Sherlock could easily walk around to molly's corner room. He knocked once on the door and waited.

No reply.

He knocked again with no avail. "Molly?" He called quietly. 

Nothing.

Frowning, he pushed down the handle of the door to find it unlocked, and he was able to nudge open the door. That was strange; nobody left their room unlocked unless they were inside, which Molly was clearly not it had seemed. Her bed was made, still the same way Sherlock had remembered it this morning. In fact, it had only been four hours since he'd seen Molly last, and the girl seemed ready to fall into bed by the time he left. All their talk of what to say to John's father and how to behave had taken its toll on the poor girl.

Sherlock shook his head and inspected the room closer. The clothes he decided looked best on her were still draped over her desk chair. In the end, they'd gone with a light pink floral shirt and white tank top, with beige capri trousers and a simple pair of brown Oxford's. She looked rather classy in them with her hair tied back to show off her long neck. Molly had joked about Sherlock's eye for fashion.

But where in the world _was_ she? Door unlocked, bed unslept in, clothes untouched. Schoolbag still nestled in the corner and all her belongings in her neat little cubby hole beside her bed. It was as if she'd disappeared. That was impossible, of course, but this left Sherlock with a dilemma. 

_Call me as soon as you get this, Molly. If the plan is still on, be at the pitch for noon. I'll have your stuff. SH_ He fired off the text and found a duffel bag in the wardrobe. He folded Molly's clothes into it and slung it over his shoulder before he left the same way he came in.

"She in there?" John asked, spotting his boyfriend emerging from the building. He didn't want to alarm John, especially not before the first match of the season with his father expected to be there. Sherlock smiled and gave a nod, hoping to whatever deity was out there that this would work. A biting wind blew across the courtyard then, making Sherlock shuffle closer to John for a bit of warmth.

"Yes. She's just... Dealing with an issue. 'Girl stuff', she told me. I have her things for later."

"Oh, good." John smiled and stood on tip-toe for a small peck. "Come on, we have half an hour to spare before I have to go."

"I'm all yours." Sherlock chuckled and tried to push the Molly issue aside. If she failed to turn up, he could always make something up until he figured out what was going on, though it would mean a lot of explaining after a while. He was brought out of his mind by John's hand trailing down to the small of his back. 

"Oh yes you are." John turned down a small pathway between two classroom blocks and caught Sherlock's hand. They walked rather hastily. 

"Where are we going, John?" Sherlock laughed but allowed himself to be pulled along by his boyfriend. 

"Music room. It's empty on Saturdays and so is the rest of the school." They shared a grin and didn't slow down until they reached their destination. 

The door to the music room was barely closed before Sherlock advanced on John, pushing him up against the hardwood and latching his lips to the smaller boy's. John's hands grasped Sherlock's hips and pulled his body against him, opening his mouth for Sherlock's tongue. This kiss was heated, almost desperate with the way John's hands slipped under Sherlock's t-shirt. That was as far as they'd ever gone before; small touches under the duvet, caresses against skin. John had even gone so far as to palm Sherlock through his underwear but never have they actually _touched_ each other. Right there in that music room, 'taking things slow' was the last thing on their minds.

"John..." Sherlock's voice was deep and his lips very red. He shuffled impossibly closer to John to shift a knee between his thighs. His lips trailed down to John's cheek and jawline, nipping the skin there briefly as they travelled lower still. John inhaled sharply when he felt those lips - those glorious, full lips - press against his jugular. As his hands slid around Sherlock's hips and his nails raked up his back, John tilted his neck to give Sherlock more access.

Poking his tongue out, Sherlock licked along the smooth skin of John's neck. His knee moved to knead against John's crotch, pulling a small moan from the smaller boy's mouth. "God, you look delectable John." He breathed against his neck before going in for the kill. He latched his lips against John's pulse-line and sucked, hard enough to make John clutch at Sherlock's hips and grind himself against his knee. Now this, this was needy. Two weeks of little touches and quick kisses were taking its toll.

"Sherlock..." John's eyes fluttered shut as he felt his boyfriend remove his knee. Only to replace it with his hand. His neck was sporting a rather red looking hickey by the time Sherlock pulled his head back to look at him. "Sherlock please."

"Please?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head with a smirk. "Please what, John?"

"Please just..." Huffing out a breathless laugh, John took Sherlock's hand and guided it under the waistband of his shorts and under his thermal shorts. He was half-hard already and could see the change in Sherlock's expression. 

Without saying another word, Sherlock swooped in to kiss John again, slower this time. As his right hand wrapped itself around the base of John's cock, his left worked both the rugby shorts and thermal shorts down around his knees. John gasped into the taller boy's mouth at the touch, becoming harder by the second. Sherlock dragged his hand up towards the tip, letting his thumb stroke over the head of John's already leaking cock. He had to bite down on his lip.

"This should calm you down, John..."

"I-I'm not... Oh god." Swallowing, John let his head drop to Sherlock's shoulder. He was so sensitive to this sort of thing (he was _technically_ a virgin, see) and groaned against the soft material of Sherlock's shirt. 

"And you look so good in your rugby gear. Have I mentioned that?" His hand worked harder and his breathing deepened somewhat. "Come on, John."

John wouldn't last too much longer at this rate. He could feel Sherlock's erection through the fabric of his trousers rubbing against his leg. His friend had such long and clever fingers, making him more and more needy. A pool of heat gathered low in his stomach, tensing and untensing as John neared climax. 

"Sherlock... Sher- _hng!_ "

"That's it, John... Come on... Cum for me." Sherlock's voice was deep, husky, filled with lust. With shaking knees, John pushed his face into Sherlock's chest, braced his hands on the taller boy's hips, and came. He spilled out over his boyfriend's fingers, trembling. That was the first time they'd done this and the feeling... Well, it was quite overwhelming. Sherlock gently took his hand away, fixed John up - both their expressions rather flushed - and then bent down to kiss him softly. 

"We have to get going. Your warmups start in ten minutes, John."

"Sherlock, wait... You're still-"

"No, I'm fine. I'll be alright and we don't have time. We can... Take care of this later." A smirk pulled up at the corners of Sherlock's mouth and he brushed a hand down John's front. "You don't look too disheveled. Now go, I'll be out there to watch you."

John grinned. "Good." He brought Sherlock closer for another long kiss, nipping on his lower lip lightly, and then picked up his gearbag. "See you later."

Once John was gone, Sherlock slumped back against the wall and let his head tip back. He was still hard, but that had to wait. He had to find out where Molly was or at least come up with a convincing lie for when... _if_ she didn't turn up. Pushing himself upright, he smoothed down his front. He'd since wiped away John's mess on a nearby curtain. It took a few moments of thought - AndersonAndersonAnderson - until he was presentable enough to leave the music room.

*

Molly hadn't slept a wink. Her hair was a mess, sticking out at all angles and very unbrushed, and Sherlock found her curled up under a staircase. It wasn't long before the match began; forty minutes tops if they hurried. Crouching down, Sherlock tilted his head and called her name softly.

"Molly?" The girl's eyes shot open and she looked about wildly, almost whimpering until she saw Sherlock. 

"Oh, ah, s-sorry!" She was shivering. Something wasn't right. Sherlock held out his hand to her and she took it, her skin icy cold against his warm palm. 

"Molly, what on earth happened? Where have you been?" 

"I... I..." She swallowed and cleared her throat, glancing around before continuing. "I went to get a drink last night. Must have fallen asleep." The giggle that came out of her mouth next for short and obviously fake, and the poor girl was still trembling.

"Molly listen, I need you to calm down."

"I'm fine!"

"No you're not, but that can wait. Just lean on me a bit... There. Look, we have to get you dressed and cleaned up. I don't know what happened but I've told John you were coming. You weren't in your room this morning." Sherlock led her out into the courtyard and into another block of the school, seeking out a bathroom. By the time thet reached one, the girl had calmed down a bit.

"Here, put these on. I'm staying right here, alright? If you need help just... Call for me." Sherlock handed Molly the bag and watched her disappear into the cubicle with a frown. Whatever had happened to her had frightened her, and she was jumpy and pale. 

Despite her trembles, it didn't take long for her to get dressed. It only took a few tweaks here and there and a smoothing down of her hair to get her looking presentable. She still looked quite ashen and wild-eyed, but they had no make-up to improve that. She'd do for the time being.

"Will you be okay until you meet John's father?"

"Yes."

"...Right. Just remember what we went through earlier and try to be upbeat about rugby if asked. Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine!" She snapped, then immediately shook her head. "Sorry. Look, I'm okay. Can we just get it over with?"

Nodding briefly, Sherlock took her bag from her and led her out of the building and to the pitch.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL FOR THE SUPPORT AND NICE COMMENTS! Seriously it DOES motivate me. Anyway, school starts back tomorrow so I can't say my updates will be regular (I have to put effort in for my summer exams *ugh* )
> 
> HUGE thanks to NonsenseandBiscuits, who drew this amazing fanart based on chapter one! It's utterly brilliant, dear!  
> http://nonsenseandbiscuits.tumblr.com/post/21115627580/from-swimming-pools-and-rugby-balls 
> 
> Anyway, there might be some mistakes due to lack of usual computer. Can you all guess what happened to Molly?

John had won the match against St. Bartholomew's. In the last minute of the game - after their defender had been sent off for a dangerous tackle to Greg - John managed to get a hold of the ball and make a run for it. It took some pushing and shoving and passing, but eventually he reached the try line and had _dived_ for it. It led Briarwood's to a victory of 5 - 4 and left John with bleeding knuckles, green knees, a mucky face, and bruises down his legs. The adrenaline pumping through his veins however, had drowned out the pain.

An roar of cheers erupted from the spectators, both on the edges of the pitch and in the stand beyond. John was almost knocked over by his teammates hugging and clapping him on the back. He barely registered the other team shaking their hands in respect, and was still spinning from the win by the time his father approached. Ever true to his son's team, Gerald Watson was dressed respectively in a green jumper. A white shirt collar poked out from the neckline and his trousers were neatly pressed.

"Well done, son!" Mr. Watson gave his son a hearty clap on the back and pulled him forward to ruffle his hair. "You played well, I'm proud of you."

"Thanks dad." John grinned widely, the action pulling the caked in muck around his face tight. "Hey, come and say hi to Sherlock"

"Sherlock? You two still thick as thieves then?" John's parents had only met Sherlock a handful of times, mostly after rugby matches and one time when John insisted he come home with him for Easter break. Mrs. Watson had fawned over Sherlock the entire time. She made a fuss to make sure that he was comfortable, and that he was not to lift a finger during his stay. John's room had only one single bed and was the box room of the house, and Mrs. Watson made John give Sherlock his bed while John slept on a spare mattress on the ground next to it. John hadn't minded though, and Sherlock was kind enough to swap during the week.

"Yeah. He's over there with-" _Crap._ John had forgotten about Molly. She was standing right next to Sherlock, dressed in her appropriate handpicked clothing. John had only really glanced over at her and Sherlock as the match started, so he didn't get a chance to get a great look at her. Looking at her now though, she looked pale and tired, as if she hadn't slept. He passed it off as nerves either way.

"Is that your girlfriend, John?" Looking over at his father, John tried not to pull a face at the almost smug grin on his face. "She's pretty. Bit tired looking, though. That 'cause of you son, eh?" Mr. Watson nudged his son and gave a wink. John just wanted the ground to swallow him whole. 

"…Yeah. That's her." Beside Molly, Sherlock gave Mr. Watson and John a small wave. "Dad look, try not to embarrass me, alright?" John nearly added 'or yourself', but decided it was best to keep that to himself.

As they approached Molly and Sherlock, John could see his boyfriend nudging her to full alertness. Molly's hooded eyes opened up wider, their wistful expression changing instantly into a brighter, happier one.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Watson." Sherlock held out his hand and Mr. Watson shook it heartily.

"Call me Gerald, Sherlock. As chivalrous as always, you are." For a second, John allowed his mind to linger on that moment. It was almost like Sherlock was meeting his dad again as his _boyfriend_ and not just his best friend. If his dad knew the truth, he'd most likely recoil and remove John from the school immediately. No, he couldn't think like that. Giving his head a shake, John snapped back to attention.

"Mr. Watson, this is Molly Hooper." Sherlock stepped up when John didn't. "Molly, this is John's father, Gerald Watson."

"Oh, h-hello." Molly flushed a delicate pink; the only colour against her pallid cheeks. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Watson. I can see where John gets his good looks."

Mr. Watson laughed and leaned back to John. "You pick 'em good, John. I like her." Pulling himself straighter, he reached out to shake her hand. "Nice to meet you too, Molly Hooper." Molly gave her "boyfriend's" dad a little smile.

"How's Mrs. Watson doing?" Sherlock asked, stepping closer to John and his dad. He gave John glance which told him him to calm down. 

"Georgina's fine, Sherlock. She never stops singing your praises, actually."

"Oh?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Too kind." John had to hold back a snort beside him, instead looking over at Molly. The poor girl looked like she was about to faint.

"Er, dad…" John stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Molly's shoulders. "Why don't you and Sherlock talk for a minute. I'm just going to sit Molly down for a bit. She's not feeling the best." Mr. Watson just nodded, waving his son away. It was true to say he approved of Sherlock. Turning, John led Molly over to the sideline to sit on one of the steel benches. He mumbled an apology for his hands leaving a smudge of dirt on her shirt.

"Thanks John." Molly leaned back and let her head rest against the wall. Here eyes closed briefly and John took a seat beside her.

"Are you alright, Molly? I'm sorry you have to do this it's just…" John shrugged.

"Your father expects a lot from his only son. I understand John, it's fine. I don't mind." Now that she didn't have to pretend anymore, Molly sounded… Weary. Weak. "And I'm fine."

"I don't think you are. Maybe you should go back to your room."

"No! I don't want- I can't go on my own, I-" Her eyes went wide and frantic, and John had to pull her close to soothe her. 

"Molly, Molly, it's alright… What's the matter?" She shook her head and slunk forward, covering her face with her hands. "Did something happen to you?"

"N-no, look… God, I'm sorry. I just…" She shrugged. "Didn't sleep last night. I'd just rather not walk home alone. I don't want to talk about it." John frowned at her but said nothing. He just soothed a hand up and sown her shoulder. Finally, he sighed. 

"I'll walk you back to your room, alright? I'll even stay with you until you fall asleep if that's what it will take you to rest." She nodded, having calmed down from her outburst. Ever since last night after Sherlock left her room… She shuddered. Jim Moriarty: the name flashed through her mind and she clenched her jaw, trying to ignore the sick feeling that arose… The sensations of the drug… Jim's hands... It made her shudder.

Standing up, Molly allowed John to wind an arm around her waist. They made a stop at Sherlock and his dad to bid farewell. 

"I suppose I should get going too. Your mum expects me home soon. Anyway Sherlock, have a think about it and tell John to let us know by the end of the week." He gave Sherlock's hand a shake, then patted John on the shoulder before leaving. 

"I'd ask what that was about, but I'm going to bring Molly back to her room first. Wait for me in the porch, alright?" Sherlock nodded, looking between John and Molly. "I'll meet you in a bit." John left with Molly in tow, keeping her close through the throng of people still gathered about. Sherlock could feel eyes boring a hole into thr back of his head. It made his hair prickle and stand up on end, but when he whipped his head back he didn't catch anyone. Odd... Shrugging, he zipped up his hoodie and made way for the dorm porch.

*

After John had managed to get Molly into her room and under her duvet - fully clothed except for her shoes and bag - he sat with her until she assure him she'd be fine. He made sure that the door was locked before going to meet Sherlock.

"Oi." He called over to where his boyfriend was sitting on a small armchair, knees bent up to his chin and his feet tucked under him. He was glaring at all the people going by, obviously peeved at their 'mindless conversation'. "Right, I'm going downtown to eat something. I'm too hungry to care about a shower." 

"Your dad invited me to your house for Mid-Term." At the confused expression on John's face, he rolled his eyes and stood up. "What your dad was talking to me about?"

"Oh! Right. Yeah do!" John pulled out a dark green hoodie from his gearbag and pulled it over his muddy jersey, before changing from his rugby boots to a pair of trainers. "Mum would love to have you again."

"...I'll see."

"Why? Are your parents expecting you home?"

Sherlock snorted. "As if. They're spending the break in France. Or Vienna, can't remember. I don't think Mycroft particularly wants to spend it with me back home. Nor I with him."

"Then... What?"

"Nothing in particular." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "I just don't want to be imposing."

John paused halfway out the door. "Imposing? Sherlock you're my best friend _and_ boyfriend. And dad invited you! Come on, it'll be fun. We'll be back in time for the Halloween party too. Your brother's in charge of that." 

A slow smile spread across Sherlock's face and he looked back. "Yeah... Yeah alright." He waited until they were out of the school grounds and out of sight of any other students, before reaching out and slipping his hand into John's. 

Their fingers fitted together perfectly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ech, sorry for the delay. School and homework got in the way. Add that to my procrastination and the archive being down yesterday and then yeah. ANYWAY, here's chapter eight. They finally do it. I had to edit this a lot to make the RP logs fit in with the story.
> 
> It's a bit rushed so I hope it's at least adequate. I might try to update every saturday/sunday. Also, next chaper is going to be a Halloween party chapter, and more sexytimes will ensue.

"Dinner's just about ready, Sherlock." John stepped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. It was nearing the end of their Mid-Term break and it was the last night they'd be staying with John's family. It had been a nice, easy week, and the couple had plenty of time to themselves. What made sharing a bedroom even better was the fact John's parents suspected nothing between the two of them. That led to late night cuddling, a handjob in the wee hours of the morning, one rushed but satisfactory blowjob, and even a make-out session in the sitting room when John's parent's had gone out for the evening. If they shared a bed they made sure to separate before John's mum came in to wake them up.

After a month of going out, things hadn't gone as far as sex. They weren't rushed in any way but the topic was bound to come up sooner or later. Since that first pre-match handjob in the Music room, Sherlock had gone out and bought a box of condoms and John a bottle of lube. Just in case.

"I'll be right down. I'm just making sure I won't be forgetting anything when I pack." Sherlock pulled a pair of underwear out from under John's bed and held it up. "Like this, for example." 

"Nothing incriminating." John grinned. "Anyway, mum rang. She and dad won't be home until very late so..."

"So," Sherlock took a step forward, reaching out and pulling John against him. "We get the evening all to ourselves?"

"Yep. Harry won't be home and if she does, well, you've _met_ her." And by that John meant 'She'll be too intoxicated to comprehend'. He grinned as Sherlock's lips pressed up against his own, but he pushed him back gently. "Wait until after dinner."

With a chuckle, Sherlock nodded. "Alright. Let's eat." He quickly cleared away the bed and made it before following John downstairs to the kitchen.

*

It was a full hour later before they had their dinner plates cleared up. Outside the sky was just beginning to grow dark and the first of the streetlamps were switching themselves on. They found themselves, surprise surprise, sharing a mutual decision to hit the hay early. Neither boy had sleep on their minds, however, so when Sherlock tumbled backwards onto John's bed, the older boy settled on top of him and pinned him down. 

Their lips met in a heated, messy kiss, both boys seeming eager. Sherlock's wrists fought against John's hands until they came loose, and he switched their positions with ease. He settled with a leg on either side of John's hips, feeling the other boy's arousal pressed up against his thigh. 

Their hands roamed over each other's body, pulling at shirt buttons and t-shirt hems and trouser zippers, until both boys were naked except for their underwear. Sherlock slipped off John and lay down beside him. John had his hands around the thinner boy's waist and held him close. Their next kiss was slower, steadier, and John's hand slid down the length of Sherlock's smooth and pale chest. Sherlock sucked in a breath when John's hand slid under the waistband of his underwear and took hold of his already half-hard length.

"Sherlock..." There was something different about this. It wasn't going to be a session of mutual masturbation. There was something... More. A question that hung in the air around them.

"Yes. Yes, John, I do." Of course. Sherlock could read John like a book at this point. He swallowed and reached out a hand to John's face. Brushing the little wisps of blonde hair from John's forehead, Sherlock leaned over to kiss him again. "Only if you want to."

"I do." John stroked his hand up the length of his boyfriend's cock, and the younger boy shuddered. "I brought the lube with me."

"And I brought the condoms." At that point they both giggled. "John..." Sherlock's hands trailed down to his boxers. He hooked his thumbs into the fabric and pulled them down slowly, freeing John's length. John was older and more experienced in the relationship than Sherlock was, so he would be the one to instigate all of this. However, they were both virgins; the farthest John had ever gone with another person, his last girlfriend Sarah, couldn't even be considered sex. He never actually _entered_ her because she panicked, so technically John was a virgin too. 

Removing his hand from Sherlock's cock, John sat back and allowed Sherlock to pull his own underwear down. Meanwhile John rooted around in his suitcase for the lube, and then in Sherlock's for the condoms. They were going to have sex.

Sherlock sat back against some cushions, legs spread with his hand on his cock, pumping slowly. His hand travelled down to his entrance. As he slipped two fingers inside, Sherlock had to bite his lip. He'd done this before to himself on numerous occasions, but never in front of John. The boy in question just looked at him, fucking himself open with his fingers. Tearing off one of the little foil packets, John tossed both it and the bottle of lube onto the bed next to Sherlock. He clambered back on until he was kneeling just at Sherlock's feet.

Sherlock could feel himself stretching open. He made sure not to find his own prostate; he wanted John to do that when he was actually in him. Finally he removed his fingers and breathed out, face flushed all the way down to his chest.

"Come here." Sherlock held out his arms and motioned with his head for John to come closer. The action cause their bodies to press together and their cocks to rub off each other. It pulled a groan from John's throat. By now they were both hard. They kissed slowly and deeply, with Sherlock's hand reaching out to pick up the condom packet (shakily) and hand it to John.

Wetting his lips, John took the condom from Sherlock's shaking hand. He paused as he tore it open and looked down at his best friend and boyfriend. "Are you sure? I don't want to do this if you're not sure." And there was the protective side coming out again for Sherlock. Of course they'd both consented but John just needed to be absolutely sure.

"John..." Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted, lifting a hand to run long fingers down John's chest. "Trust me on this, if you would. I'm sure I'm willing." He looked up at John with half-lidded eyes; they were pupil blown with only a tin ring of silver blue visible. Something seemed to occur to him, and he wriggled around enough to stuff one of the pillows from the head of the bed under his hips. The angle made it easier for John.

John finally opened the condom packet and steadied his cock so he could roll it down. Once it was secure, he returned his attention to Sherlock. He bent one of his slender legs just a little farther up and held onto his hips. Leaning over, he pressed his lips softly against Sherlock's and murmured. "Here goes nothing." With a little chuckle, he lined himself up and applied a little bit of pressure to his entrance. It wasn't too tight considering Sherlock had already prepared himself.

Sherlock's heart was beating a vicious tattoo against the inside of his ribcage. That's not to say he was nervous; no, he was looking forward to it too much to be nervous, but this was something he'd never done with another person. John was warm, much warmer than his fingers, and he had a momentary fancy that he could feel the smaller boy's heartbeat through the flesh pressed into him. He became quite suddenly aware that he was drifting, and that John was probably waiting for him to say something. "I'm alright, John," he finally managed, voice pitched low. "Go on, you won't hurt me."

Steadying Sherlock's hips, John pushed in. Now this, this was an entirely new experience. It wasn't like his first time at all; Sherock was hotter, tighter, and John let his eyes close as he pushed in centimeter by centimeter. Oh god it felt good, he thought, kneading the soft skin of Sherlock's hips with his hands. He managed to open his eyes again when he'd pushed right in. Their bodies were closer and John could just about feel the thump-thump of his friend's heart under his chest. Taking a moment to just appreciate the look on Sherlock's face, John then pulled his hips back and let his cock glide back the same slick path.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered and a little shudder ran down his spine. It helped that he'd already stretched himself out; there was no edge of pain, only the slick slide of John's cock inside him and the slow, building heat between them both. Letting out a low hum he reached up and threaded his fingers into the smaller boy's sandy-blonde hair, giving it a little tug. "Here, stop for a second... I have an idea that might work out for your benefit." There was one good thing about being on the swim team; Sherlock was lean and flexible enough that he managed to get both of his legs draped over John's shoulders without separating them. Certain muscles tensed with the shift, and a strange expression fluttered across Sherlock's face when his body tightened on John's cock.

John's breath skittered out at the movement. "Oh that's better." He shuffled closer on his knees, pushing his cock up inside Sherlock, and held onto one of his legs. "Make sure you tell me if I hurt you." He said that with one hard thrust, ending it with a sort of half-groan. They needed the change in pace and position, and John could feel the muscles in his shoulders and thighs flexing with each roll of his hips. Gradually, the pace quickened and a little sheen of sweat was starting to build along John's chest. He bent down and sought out Sherlock's lips, kissing him feverishly.

Never had Sherlock been so glad to have a rugby player for a best friend; all the muscle mass that John had built up playing the sport was certainly paying off now, and he rather fancied he was sliding up the bed a little with each thrust. He was, in fact, but John was quite firmly planted in one spot; thank God for that, it kept Sherlock's head from being beaten through the headboard. The bed should have been rattling with the force behind John's thrusts, but it was only making soft creaking noises. He kept quiet until John kissed him, then let loose a rather ragged sounding moan into John's mouth.

And that moan carried straight to John's cock, making his hips buck rather forcefully upwards. He nipped his boyfriend's lower lip lightly and released his own groan of pleasure. He was close, but not quite there yet. He wanted to make it last until Sherlock came first, because he needed to feel it. He continued to kiss him for a few thrusts more, before his lips started to trail down along his neck until it curved towards his shoulder, and he left a rather deep pink lovebite there. He was careful with it so it wouldn't show abover his school shirt collar or somewhere anyone could see it. For now. "Oh god, Sherlock." The name drawled from his lips and he fucked him harder, longer.

Sherlock made a sharp, startled noise, his hands quite suddenly fisting in the bedsheet under him until his knuckles went white. John had managed to hit his prostate just _so_ , sending a shot of pleasure straight up his spine to burst in the back of his skull. He hadn't even noticed his own length filling and flushing with blood, but he noticed it now; it bumped lightly against John's stomach with every thrust, drawing little noises out of Sherlock's mouth. If it weren't for that, and the fact that John kept hitting that same spot, he would have protested the lovebite on his shoulder. He was going to have to explain that to the swim team, unless he stubbornly refused to attend practices, and he really wasn't looking forward to _that_ conversation with his coach.

John's back muscles were getting a great working out it seemed, because John could feel them flexing every time he pulled out. He decided to switch methods; instead of pulling all the way out, John instead would inch back just a little bit from Sherlock's prostate and just about graze over it, then he'd nudge right up against it in short sharp jolts. Every sound he drew from Sherlock's lips was like music to his ears. Slowly, he snaked a hand between them and curled it around the base of his friend's cock.

He was almost _too_ sensitive for that. His hips stuttered once, twice, and on the third helpless shiver his body clamped down and his orgasm tore through him. A spatter of his own release landed on his tensed stomach, but most of it coated John's chest. The clench and flutter of his muscles left the taller boy shaking.

"Fuck!" John cursed and bit down to stop himself moaning. Now that was nice. That was extremely nice. It wouldn't be long before he came, and he could feel his own balls start to clench. He continued to fuck Sherlock through his orgasm - though a little slower this time - and eventually he was there too. He dropped his head to rest on his friend's shoulder, shuddered as his hips came to a stop, and orgasmed with a deep, rumbling moan. He didn't budge for a moment to let himself recover. Leaning back, he looked at Sherlock through heavy-lidded eyes. "...Alright?" He had just had sex with his boyfriend for the first time and the endorphins were amazing.

Sherlock gave a little shiver and nodded, completely unable to move. He was pretty sure John had just, quite literally, fucked his brains out. But then, if he was able to get at least that far, surely they weren't all oozing out his ears onto the pillow behind his head? The thought made him giggle helplessly, his head lolling to one side. "Sorry," he managed finally, the word rumbling low in his chest. "Yes, I'm fine. Just a bit giddy, though I'm sure you can forgive me for that." Silver-blue eyes fluttered shut as he turned his cheek into the pillow, letting out another soft noise. "Clean yourself up and come back to bed, John. We have an early start in the morning, you should get some sleep."

John pulled himself out and lowered Sherlock's legs to the bed. He was still buzzing with his own aftershocks and they made him feel light and fluttery. Sitting back on his heels, John rolled the condom off, tied it, and threw it into the bin without a miss. He picked up his t-shirt and cleaned both his own length and the splatter of cum on Sherlock's chest. He climbed under the duvet and squeezed closer so neither boy would fall off the bed. He sighed and draped an arm over his boyfriend.

Sherlock made a small noise, not quite a word, and nestled back into John's chest. This was surprisingly comfortable, even if John's nose was pushed into his shoulderblade and Sherlock was a good bit tired. Though he was going to have a few issues with walking in the morning, it had been well worth it. He had needed this, not just for the data it had given him about John, but about his own mind and preferences. "We'll have to do this again sometime soon, I think. I quite enjoyed that..."

'' 'Course. Same time next week?" John smirked and pressed a little kiss into the soft skin of Sherlock's back. His hand curled around the younger boy's stomach and he yawned. He made a mental note to apologise for the teeth marks in his shoulder, which would fade away soon enough, even if the lovebite would still last. "Night Sherlock."

Another non-commital noise rumbled out of him, and seconds later Sherlock was out cold, his limbs slack and his breathing slow and even. He looked much younger when he was sleeping, even if he was already the younger of the two. Some short time after falling asleep, Sherlock rolled over and nestled in under John's chin.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is supposed to be their... around third or fourth time in the space of a few days to have sex. They're like rabbits, you see. This chapter is more smutty than plot but... It's all for the best, right?

Sherlock was... Sort of regretting his choice in costume.

Mycroft _always_ sponsored Briarwood's Halloween party, which meant Sherlock was obligated to attend. In the past, he had managed to keep himself low-key, usually serving drinks and snacks and keeping his head down so no one would see him. No such luck this time; John had insisted that Sherlock actually attend this time. Which meant finding a costume. There had been some difficulties finding anything that would fit Sherlock's tall, lanky frame, and he had found himself rathre unceremoniously stuffed into full Victorian vampire regalia; black silk brocade waistcoat, black shirt, red ascot tie pinned with an enormous red glass gem on a gold pin, and black silk leggings tucked into glossy knee-high boots with slight heels.   
He was already tall enough, just topping six feet, but the whole getup, boots included, made him look just that much taller. Pulling his cape around him (velvet, ankle length, tied at the neck with a red satin ribbon to match the ascot tie), he let himself into the party.  
The room almost instantly fell silent, upwards of twenty pairs of eyes turning to stare at him as he untied his cloak, draped it over his arm, and strode across the room to the youth-friendly bar on the other side of the room. A bubble of silence followed him across the room; everyone started talking about five feet behind him, whispering among themselves as he went by.

John had already joined the party earlier on, having told Sherlock to come alone once he was ready seeing as John himself was on the decoration comittee. He'd gathered with his rugby club in one corner, being one of three pirates, a frankenstein, a 50's pimp, and several variations of werewolves and vampires. Of course, when the room fell silent and he turned to look, those vampires looked incredibly mediocre. John simply grinned and tried to hide it by taking a sip of his red orange juice (food dye, supposed to look like blood.) He was sure that if he hadn't been told and briefly shown what the costume _was_ , his chin would have dropped just like everyone elses. 

His own costume was rather revealing in comparison; a brown shirt, buttons left open down the front to reveal his toned and tanned chest, tucked into a red band that was wrapped tightly around his hips. A fake scimitar was looped through one of the folds. He wore darker brown shorts that were ripped over the knees and, in keeping with the cliche of pirate costumes, wore a red captain's hat with gold trimmings along the edge. To give himself a feral edge, he'd smeared his fingers with black paint and dragged them along his left cheek.

"Wow, he looks... Uh..." Lestrade shook his head, glancing sideward at John.

"Absolutely sexy and _very_ handsome? Yeah." With a wicked grin, he strode over to his boyfriend.

It seemed oddly fitting that the non-alcoholic bar was serving red-dyed orange juice. Wrinkling his nose a bit for the tackiness of it all, Sherlock nonetheless accepted a glass of it and turned around. Only to find himself with practically an armful of a very done-up and rather scantily clad girl from one of the other schools down the way from Briarwood. If the ears sticking out of her tangle of pinned up red hair were anything to go on, she was supposed to be some sort of werewolf. Not that she looked all that threatening; how she was walking in those boots was a complete mystery. By all rights, she should have ended up on her face on the floor by now.

"Mmm. Are you hungry, Dracula? I could give you a nice little snack if you wanted."

"I'm alright." Sherlock smiled, just enough to let the tips of his fangs peep out from under his upper lip. "I think this," he gestured with the plastic wine glass full of juice, "will tide me over just fine."

The girl, Hayley Mills, was known for her successful attempts at getting most of the sixth form boys into her bed. Before she could have another go at attempting this on John's boyfriend, the boy himself appeared behind her. He gave Sherlock a wink before leaning closer to her and whispering something into her ear. One of his hands gave her hip a light squeeze and she turned, nodded, and giggled before prancing away and towards John's corner. Straightening up, John gave Sherlock a once over and smirked. "You do look delicious if I may say so." There was nobody around to hear them, so they really just looked like two friends chatting. Which was really all they were doing.

"Thank you." Sherlock inclined his head a bit, still smiling wide enough to afford a peek of his fangs under the softness of his upper lip. "You don't look half bad yourself. I like the hat, very dashing." He flicked a finger against the brim of John's hat, just under the trim of fake gold braid, before settling onto one of the stools at the bar and resting his hand on his leg. "Honestly, I'm glad you like it. I feel more than a bit ridiculous in this outfit, if I'm honest, even if I was the one that picked it out..."

"It suits you, you know. You're pale enough to pull it off and look convincing." John chuckled and poured himself another drink. Most of the people who'd turned and stared had gone back to their conversations, all scattered about or dancing to music. John looked back to his original corner to where David Johnson, their best full back, was currently sitting with a lapful of Hayley Mills. "God he's desperate at times..." He shook his head and looked back at Sherlock. "I like your fangs."

"He's a teenage boy and she's not wearing much. It was inevitable." He brought the plastic wineglass to his lips, sipping delicately at his orange juice and licking a stray drop out of the corner of his mouth as he lowered the glass. "Thank you... They were a bit of work, but worth it. I don't need to take them out to eat or drink, so they're not as much trouble as they could be." Rubbing the toe of one polished boot against the floor, he took another sip of juice.

"And what about kissing?" He smirked, licking up a drop that trickled its way down the edge of his cup. He was sure that if they did end up sneaking off to kiss somewhere before the end of the night, he'd have puncture marks in his lips and/or tongue. The thought made him snigger behind his knuckles, and he set his empty cup down on the bartop. The best thing about the Halloween party was that no teachers were around to monitor their behaviour; that job went to the school prefects, which were in John's year in the first place, just bossier and prissier than everyone else.

"Well, then I might have to take them out. Wouldn't want to knock one loose and swallow it by mistake, would I?" With a cheeky little smirk he pushed the tip of his tongue against the point of one fang. "Then again, they are for all intents and purposes glued to my teeth. I doubt they'll be going anywhere, should I choose to do a little snogging on the back porch."

"We can test that thory later. For now, let's socialise." John hopped down from his stool and looked... well, not down, rather straight ahead at his boyfriend. "Oh, don't give me that look, Sherlock, come on." Rolling his eyes, he waited until Sherlock's drink was safely out of sight before taking him by the elbow and pulling him to his feet. My god, he felt shorter than usual standing beside his six-foot something lover in _heeled_ boots.

Sherlock heaved a very put-upon sort of sigh but allowed himself to be led off. While he wasn't completely friendly with most of the school, he could at least tolerate the rugby team. Apart from Anderson, at least, they were better than tolerable. He smiled politely at Greg, who seemed a little shellshocked from Sherlock's costume. Which wasn't surprising; it wasn't normal for an eighteen-year-old student to show up in full Victorian dress.

"David and Hayley have gone to shag." Rory shook his head. "Lucky bastard. Wasn't she hitting on you earlier, Holmes?" John shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. So far, it was still only Greg and Molly that knew about them on the team, and Anderson maybe; if he ever passed any remark John didn't hear it. Actually, the more John thought about it, the more it occured to him that Molly was nowhere to be seen. He new she was coming: she'd told him earlier. And she was supposed to be bringing a friend with her.

Sherlock let out a small, humourless laugh at Rory, snapping John out of his daze. "Yes, unfortunately she was. Lord only knows what she would have given me if I'd taken up on _that_ offer." He wrinkled his nose delicately and made a small, subdued gagging sound. That earned a laugh from a couple of the boys and gave Sherlock a moment to shoot John a reassuring little smile. He wasn't going to out them to the rugby team; he knew better than that, especially in a tightly knit school like Briarwood.

"Good on you, Holmes." Rory laughed, raising his drink in salute. "Well at least he's actually getting some. My last girlfriend wouldn't put out for me at all after five whole months!" 

"Just because Molly has a bit of dignity, Rory, unlike you. Pervert." John shook his head but then laughed, earning a playful dig from his team-mates. In actual fact, John had been the one to console the poor girl after their break up. Molly deserved better than Rory anyway. 

Sherlock had managed to collect himself another drink on the way over, and now kept his head down as he sipped at it. He was trying his best to keep a good front up in front of John's teammates, but his eyes kept wandering to the exposed triangle of skin in the neck of John's shirt. Tearing his eyes away, he pushed the flat of his tongue against the point of a fang again.

John had caught his little looks, of course, and couldn't help glancing down at Sherlock's snug-fitting leggings. He had to at least touch them if nothing else. Standing up, he stretched. "Anyway, I'm going out to get some air. Bit stuffy in here. Coming, lo- Sherlock?" _Shit, that was close._ He'd only started calling Sherlock 'love' recently, and it was becoming more and more of a reflex. He'd have to train himself to keep it in.

Sherlock seemed startled out of some sort of reverie when his name was spoken, nearly slopping orange juice into his lap. "Mm, yes, of course. Don't want you going anywhere by yourself, in case the girls get the wrong idea." He chuckled softly, downed the rest of his orange juice in one go, and followed John out onto the back deck. It was surprisingly empty, and Sherlock heaved himself up to sit on the railing.

John wet his lips and looked around. The couple by the wall that had been disturbed from their almost-groping disappeared around the corner and somwhere probably far away and dark. And then they were alone. "Thanks to my amazing decorating skills, everybody else seems pretty content to stay indoors and enjoy it all..." He smirked and stepped closer into the space between Sherlock's legs. His hands gingerly reached out and felt up the satin fabric on his knees.

The satin leggings were stretched tight over Sherlock's knees, even as thin as his legs were, and while they didn't really show much on a first glance a touch would surely be able to find all the lines of muscle under the soft fabric. "Mmm. Good, it's a good place for them to be. It looks lovely in there." He shifted his legs apart a bit, making room for John's broader frame. "You did a good job." Lifting a hand, he brushed the backs of his fingers down John's cheek, on the side facing away from the door.

"The 'blood' was my idea. Thought it appropriate." John shrugged and glanced back. Nobody was coming. If they were, they'd be alerted first by the squeak of the door being pushed open. It will give them at least three seconds to pull apart. He leaned into Sherlock's touch and smoothed his hands up further and then around his waist. "Tell me where you got the inspiration for this outfit again?" He couldn't see Sherlock anymore under the brim of his hat, so he removed it and put it atop Sherlock's head instead.

"Mm. Call it a love of period dramas and _proper_ vampires, not bloodsucking fairies." Sweeping the hat off and laying it on the railing next to him, he leaned in to brush a swift kiss across John's mouth. "I approve of the costume, by the way, though it's not what I imagined you turning up in. I rather thought to see you in some sort of Roman gladiator outfit."

"Hah! Well I can rustle up one of them too, if you really want to see me in one." John laughed softly against his boyfriend's mouth and pushed his own mouth back. "I'm glad you like it. I've had a love for pirates my whole life. I'm sure if you look back at some childhood photos, you'll see me as at least five different variations of a Pirate." After a few seconds he heaved a sigh and pulled his head back enough to look up at Sherlock.

"Well, let me tell you a secret." Brushing a dark curl off his forehead, he leaned in to speak quietly into John's ear. "When I was a child, I always wanted to be a pirate. It was a silly childhood fascination, but I had my own cutlass and eyepatch. Mycroft and mother humoured me until I grew out of the phase. Though I don't think I could pull it off now nearly as well as you do."

"Oh-" John had to drop his head to Sherlock's chest to stifle his giggles. "Oh my god. That is so fucking adorable, Sherlock! I'm going to ask Mycroft for pictures the next time I see him." He winked up at his boyfriend then and bit his bottom lip. "You know, I was going to go without a shirt at all."

"It was wise of you to keep it." He ran the tip of his finger along the line of the brown cotton shirt's collar. "I don't think I could have kept my hands to myself if you had gone entirely without the shirt. Much too tempting." His finger shifted over, brushing along bare skin instead of the soft cotton. He really was quite glad no one could see them.

 

"Maybe I wouldn't have minded." He shivered lightly, though not from the cold. He shifted up on tip-toe and brushed his lips long the smooth, unbroken skin of Sherlock's neck. He was careful to not leave a mark, though it was /extremely/ tempting. Just as he was getting into it, the door squeaked. "Shit-"

Sherlock pulled away and jammed John's hat back on his head, somehow without making it look like it had just been jammed back into place. Shifting back and away, Sherlock _almost_ managed to avoid falling off the rail into the garden below. Instead, he found himself falling in a tangle of long, flailing limbs and velvet cape, landing in a hopelessly tangled knot in the flowerbed below the railing. A string of curses drifted upward as he attempted to untangle himself from his cloak and the flowers.

" M-Molly! And-" John half-shrieked Molly's name and was momentarily flooded with relief. He'd had some whirlwind excuse in his mind, and a plan, to clutch his eye in agony as if he'd injured it (it would explain their proximity. at least.) But wait... The person with Molly, holding onto her hand...

Jim?

Molly was dressed as a cat with fairy wings (god knows why, but they were sparky too), and Jim was dressed in a tailored Westwood suit and a skull tie. Fitting, unless it _wasn't_ his costume. John didn't pass much comment because he remembered his boyfriend just then.

"Shit, Sherlock." John twirled around and glanced over the edge of the rail. It was actually a rather hilarious sight and he found himself laughing despite his thrumming heart. "Need a hand?" 

"Oh! So sorry, you two!" Jim looked almost like he feigned surprise (a little odd, if the upward curl of his lips was anything to go by), and Molly was practically beet-red and silent standing behind him.

"Fuck off!" Sherlock didn't mean that and he never usually cursed, but there was a petunia up the back of his waistcoat and another down his trousers, and his cape was wrapped around his head like some sort of octopus. With another string of swearing he finally flung the wad of velvet at John's head. He was distinctly flushed, his hair all standing on end and petals in his hair. One foot was stuck in the posts of the railing around the porch, the other was stuck into the lattice under the porch, and his arms were as tangled up in the flowers as the rest of him. With a last huff and curse, Sherlock disentangled himself from the ruined flowerbed and stood up, arching his back to twist around and yank the offending flower out of his trousers.

In spite of himself, John stifled giggles by biting down on his tongue. "Here, you idiot." He reached over and ruffled Sherlock's curls, which allowed petals to flutter down like confetti onto the ground around them.

 

Jim managed to tug Molly away as John turned away again. There was that little cackle again, the menacing one John could always hear when Jim was around. He was out of sight before John could even wonder why Molly had brought _him_ of all people. 

"Why was Molly with him? That was definitely Jim, was it not?"

"It was," John started, brow furrowing again. "but I don't know why. They've left now. Look maybe we should go back inside. Or somwhere else." Walking behind Sherlock, he draped the cape over his shoulders and stood back. "We'll ask Molly in the morning."

"He's been skulking around her all week." Sherlock twisted again, pulling a second crushed-looking petunia out of the back of his waistcoat. After taking an indulgent moment to stare at it as though he fervently wished it would burst into flames, he swept his cloak around him. "Actually, I think it would be perfectly excuseable if we went home. I'm about ready to leave."

"And you smell like wet flowers." John offered, wiping away some remaining grass from his shoulders. "Come on then, let's go back to my dorm tonight. Greg won't be home tonight and most of the landing's residence won't be home until this shenannigan is over." He adjusted his pirate hat with a little 'yarr' and wiggled his eyebrows.

As peeved as he was that he'd fallen off the railing into the flowerbed, he had to muffle a laugh at John. "Oh, stop. As good as you look in that outfit you can't pull off the swashbuckling pirate voice. You just can't." Smiling lightly at his boyfriend, he hooked an arm through his and turned him to lead him across the back lawn. "Here, it's quicker this way and we won't have to deal with the crowd. Unless there are people you want to say goodbye to?"

"Hey! I _can_." John pouted and walked along with him, waving off his suggestions at goodbyes. "To people who are probably trying to pick up cat-girls, fairies, and 'naughty witches'? No thank you. I think I'll stick with my sexy Vampire." They walked across the lawn to John's block, with John taking out his scimitar along the way to swing it around.

Sherlock's mood rapidly improved as they struck off across the grass, then through the thin wooded band between the house where the party was and the clear grass around the dorm buildings. There was a little stream in the middle that required jumping over, and nearly resulted in Sherlock falling into that as well. Luckily, he caught a grip on a tree branch at the last moment, hauling himself over onto the far bank.

"I blame those boots, you know." John nodded to Sherlock's heeled boots. The heel would have likely caught in the railing and thrown him off balance jumping over the stream. Not to mention seemed to make his legs go on forever. 

Sherlock huffed lightly. "The heels on these boots are /not/ that high, John. Certainly not enough to pitch me off balance jumping over such a tiny little stream."

They reached John's dorm and he swiped the card, nudging Sherlock through by a hand on the small of his back. "Empty. Glorious."

Sherlock swept off his cape as soon as they were in the building, giving it a shake to get rid of any lingering plant material that might still be stuck to the velvet. 

"Still, as gorgeous as the boots are, love, they make me feel tiny. And they did contribute to the railing thing." John giggled again at the memory, leading them both up the single flight of stairs and up to John's room, where he quickly let them in. "Do you want to take a shower or anything?"

"Go ahead, if you want to." Tossing his cape over the back of a chair, he fell backward onto the edge of John's bed. Pushing his fingers through his hair, he stretched languidly, almost like a cat. "I'm alright, though. I might put the TV on if you're going to take a shower."

"Nah, I don't want one. But I suggest you at least get out of the leggings. There's a wet patch on your arse." John switched on the TV anyway, out of sheer force of habit - he always had the TV on, even if it was just a low volume to make the place feel more homely.

"Is there? I hadn't noticed." Pushing up on his elbows, the taller boy wet his lips and peered up at John through his lashes. "Or are you just trying to get me out of my trousers, John? No need to hide it if you are. I hardly mind." He shoved up the rest of the way, leaning forward to unlace the fronts of his boots.

"It _might_ have been a subtle gesture." John grinned and dropped the fake sword onto his own bed. He tugged the shirt tails out of his waistband and folded it up, draping it over the back of his desk-chair. Turning back to Sherlock, he helped him pull off his second boot. "Let me." He reached over and started to undo the buttons of his soft waistcoat.

"It wasn't terribly subtle." Leaning back on his hands, he tipped his head back to let John undo the buttons. There were at least a dozen, covered in the same black satin as his leggings. The shirt, when the waistcoat did fall open, was obviously silk and a little loose on Sherlock's lean frame, laced up at the neck into the hollow of his throat.

It required a lot of patience and a bit of twisting, but John did manage to undress Sherlock and lay all his bits and pieces to the side. He even managed to peel off his skin-tight leggings and when he was finished, his boyfriend was in naught but a pair of silk black briefs. "You know, you manage to make fangs look awfully sexy being half naked and all that."

He smiled obligingly, just wide enough to let the pearly tips of his fangs peek out from under his upper lip. "Well, you did nearly rip that costume off me the first time you saw me in it. Now, shall I take these out or leave them in? They're pretty firmly attached." Long fingers tugged at his briefs to settle them; he was already half-hard against his upper thigh, just barely showing under the dark fabric.

"Leave 'em in. I like them." John was still in his shorts, but had removed his shoes and socks. He crawled onto the bed and ran a hand up Sherlock's smooth chest. He leaned in close enough to nip at his boyfriend's ear, hands braced on his shoulders. "Bite me, Sherlock." His breath ghosted over his ear and he nipped it again, tugging his earlobe between his teeth before letting go.

"Don't tempt me. I don't know that they'll actually hold up to me biting you." He laughed softly against John's neck, tilting his head back and to the side to bare his own neck. He breathed out a long sigh for the attention, revelling in the sensation of hot breath on his ear and on his neck. "Then again... Who am I to say no, hm?"

"Mm, go on." His tongue poked out to lick at Sherlock's neck just once before he changed positions. He sat with a leg on either side of Sherlock's thigh and tilted his head to the side to bare his neck. "Try your best, Mr. Von-Holmes." It was cheesy but the first 'vampire' name that sprang to mind. Sherlock didn't move for a few seconds, and when he did it was to turn his head slowly and give John a sour look. 

"Honestly... You don't need to be Transylvanian to be a vampire, John. It's a common misconception..." He trailed off with a sigh and rocked his weight upward, flipping them both over so he could crouch over John's prone body instead. "Besides, I don't think I can pull off Dracula's accent."

John rolled his eyes. "You can be an English vampire with the name of Von. It's acceptable in my head." John grinned. "Now shut up and _feed_ on me." He chuckled and turned his neck for Sherlock, holding on to him by his waist. He'd been bitten playfully by Sherlock before, but never with fangs of all things in. By all rights that shouldn't have sent a quick, hot shot of sensation down Sherlock's spine, but it did. And in turn, that short stab of heat went right to his cock, forcing a low noise of him as he bent his head to John's neck, almost scenting along the skin just above his collarbones and working slowly upward. 

"This is going to leave a mark, you know... Last chance to turn back."

John shook his head briefly. "No, go ahead. Please." He pushed his hips up to shift more comfortably, but he ended up nudging against Sherlock's already half hard cock with his own. That surprised him a bit, usually Sherlock took a bit longer to arouse. Still, John was far from complaining.

Sherlock made a low noise in the back of his throat and opened his mouth, sinking his 'fangs' into the soft skin of John's neck. The low noise turned into a sharp, feral growl as he bit down harder, hard enough to leave a mark and almost hard enough to break the skin on his neck.

"Rgh." John squeezed his eyes shut and his mouth dropped open, a whoosh of breath escpaing him. He could feel his pulse banging against Sherlock's hard fangs as a wave of something flushed over him. It wasn't so much pain as a dull throb on the surface of his skin, but he didn't want him to stop. "Oh God, Sherlock..."

He let out another growl against John's neck, biting down still harder before finally forcing himself away. He licked slowly over the bite to soothe it, even if he hadn't actually broken the skin, and rolled his hips slowly into John's thigh. He'd gone from half-hard to aching in the few seconds it took to leave the bite mark, a little damp spot of precum forming on the front of his briefs.

"Ah-" A choked off shout escaped him and he quickly clamped his lips shut to stop it. It took a moment later to register that Sherlock had stopped, and he felt the other boy's arousal. John himself was still only half-hard. The press of Sherlock's erection against his thigh didn't go past him, and he turned his neck - and rather flushed face - back to look up at him. "God, your libido is high tonight." He flicked his eyes down to his boyfriend's tight briefs and smirked.

Sherlock smirked back, shamelessly baring his fangs. "I hardly hear you complaining, John... Then again, you never do." He ground down into him again, bright eyes fluttering shut against the little flare of pleasure. He hadn't expected 'feeding' off John would leave him in such a state; It was never a fantasy he'd entertained, even if it was his Halloween costume.

"No, no, I'd never complain." John reached up and pulled Sherlock down closer by his curls for a rather bruising, needy kiss. He maneuvered himself so that they could both rub off on each other's thighs, and he felt himself harden a fraction in his shorts. "Mmf-" he broke away, "I need to get these _off_ me."

"Yes, I think you do." Forcing himself away, Sherlock rocked back on his heels to undo the button and the zip on John's ragged brown shorts. Getting them off required a bit of wiggling, but he managed well enough and they were soon discarded on the floor beside the bed. John's underwear, and Sherlock's, soon followed. John reached out again to pull Sherlock fully against him, and wasted no time in ravaging his mouth again. Bending his knees, he locked them around the taller boy's body and rolled his hips up to push their cocks together. A little moan slipped its way into their open mouths.

He made an unashamedly breathless noise into John's mouth, shivering for a moment until the first wash of pleasure settled down a bit. Then Sherlock ground back down into him, tearing away from the kiss to drop his head to the little bite mark on John's neck. It seemed to fascinate him, since he raked his teeth over it again before following the motion with the slick flat of his tongue.

"Fuck..." John's skin was still a tad sensitive, and the slick feeling of Sherlock's tongue over the little, barely there rivets on his skin sent a shockwave of pleasure down to his cock. It wasn't long before he was just as hard, and the friction between their cocks was fantastic. "Sherlock." John's voice was deeper and huskier than usual, flooded with need and lust.

Sherlock made some vague noise of agreement against John's neck, still rutting against him, but something in the smaller boy's voice made him lift his head enough to move up and kiss him. Licking easily into John's mouth, he caught his bottom lip gently with his fangs and gave it a little tug before quickly letting go.

"We should invest in these fangs more often." John sounded a little breathless. He huffed a laugh and locked eyes with his boyfriend who looked, amusingly, like a horny vampire. "What do you want, Sherlock? Tell me." There was a smirk playing around his kiss-reddened mouth and to punctuate his sentence, John rubbed his cock against Sherlock's again, pulling him a little bit closer by his heels.

Sherlock made another of those vague, indefinitely breathless noises and bowed his head, waiting until John had stopped moving and he could breathe again to speak. "I... I want to fuck you tonight." He hadn't tried again since the first time, with its subsequent and hilarious consequences, but there was too much of a chance that he'd swallow his fangs if he was flat on his back on the bed.

The first time Sherlock had tried to top, it seemed it all was a bit much and he came before he could even get settled. But that may have been down to the fact he was still on the periphery of virginity at that stage. John had, of course, assured him it was fine and that they could take their time. His eyes widened now, though. They'd been having sex for just over a week and Sherlock had been getter at controlling himself: maybe he'd last longer. And honestly, the image of Sherlock fucking him looking the way he did, well... "Yes. Yes, of course yes."

Sherlock bent to kiss John quickly as a thank you, smiling against his mouth before wriggling away long enough to dig the lube and condoms out of the bedside drawer. It took a bit of rustling to find them, since this usually happened in Sherlock's room, but he finally produced the familiar bottle and one of the little foil packets. Rejoining John on the bed, he kissed him again, harder this time. During the kiss, John fumbled around with Sherlock's hands to retrieve the condom packet for himself. He tore it open and sought out Sherlock's cock, only breaking their bruising kisses to get a look at what he was doing. He eventually managed to unroll it onto his boyfriend's erect cock and, once done, flicked his eyes up again. "M'all yours.

Muttering something to the effect of 'Let's hope it goes better this time', he fished the bottle of lube out of the sheets and generously slicked three fingers with the stuff. He shifted them both around a bit, draping one of John's legs around his waist and the other around his shoulder before gingerly pressing one slim finger into the smaller boy's body.

John took a breath in through his nose and relaxed his body. It wouldn't do any good to be all tensed up when Sherlock was trying to prepare him. He wasn't used to this at all and the feeling was foreign, though not entirely unwelcome. Once the initial pain had passed, he opened his eyes with a slow exhale and blinked slowly at Sherlock, alternating between looking at his face and looking at his finger.

Sherlock managed a little smile, complete with a little flicker of fang at the corners, and gently worked that single finger in shallow thrusts. He felt like he should say something, but he had no idea _what_ to say. So he settled for turning his head and playfully nipping at the inside of the thigh thrown over his shoulder.  
John snorted a bit at that. The feeling was rather unexpected combined with Sherlock's fingerfucks. He had to tip his head back a bit as the need for someting more pushed through. 

"Another. Add another." He managed, jutting his hips forward a bit onto the younger boy's fingers.

"Right, of course..." Wetting his lips with the very tip of his tongue, he gently pressed a second finger in alongside the first. "God, that's... Are you alright?" Sherlock was only up to two fingers and he was already breathing quickly, a flush spreading upward from his collarbones toward his hairline.

John gave a nod, mouth having fallen open again to confine any proper sentences he might have had. His hips started to push themselves onto Sherlock's fingers in time with their thrusts and john soon found himself needing his cock instead. "Sh-Sherlock, please." He swallowed and cracked his eyes open. Reaching up, he pulled Sherlock down to kiss him. "Fuck me." The words were breathy little pants into his mouth.

"Just... Alright, yes, alright. Just let go of me?" When he was released he sat back onto his heels, slipping both of John's legs up over his shoulders and pulling the smaller boy's hips closer to him. Steadying his length with one hand, he pressed in slowly... And managed, wonder of wonder, to last past those first few seconds. He kept pressing inward, finally coming up flush against John's hips and fully engulfed in what felt like impossible heat. When they were skin-to-skin he finally stopped, panting and waiting for that first rush to settle down. "God... John, I..."

For that whole first thrust in, John had stopped breathing. It felt so strange to be the bottom. "Nngh, Sherlock..." One of his hands clutched onto the bedsheets beneath them and the other settled somewhere on Sherlock's waist. "K-keep going. I'm alright." The last time Sherlock topped, the few seconds actually, John didn't get to fully experience how good he actually felt. John himself was slightly thicker but Sherlock was definitely longer.

Sherlock took a couple more seconds to catch his breath, his head bowed slightly as he waited for his breathing to even out. Then, so slowly that it was almost painful for him, he dragged his hips back and slowly, so slowly that it was a sweet agony, pulled out about halfway. Then his hips snapped forward again and he let out a breathless unashamed little moan against John's neck, followed by a low string of muttered French curses. A sharp inhale-exhale was all John could manage at the first sharp thrust. It was a mixture of new sensations; rubber sliding along his walls, the pain-pleasure of Sherlock hitting back in, and the little shoots of pleasure it sent to his cock. Groaning, he dug his heels into Sherlock's shoulderblades and curled up his toes.

"Oh, that's _good_." Sherlock's long hands clutched, a little desperately, at John's hips as he pulled out again and snapped back home. Each thrust was a little deeper, a little harder, and punctuated by a small groan out of Sherlock.

Pleasure, pure absolute pleasure, had pushed its way through John with every thrust. As Sherlock grazed just off his prostate every time, John let out a small moan-whimper, seeking more. "Fuck, Sher-lock!" He rolled his hips down against Sherlock's and tipped his head back again. One hand found its way to his leaking cock and he grasped it. Sherlock threw a roll into the end of his thrusts, angling upward and in just a little. He knew what he was aiming for; what he didn't know was exactly _where_ he was aiming for. Since his hands were occupied with pulling John back into his thrusts, he didn't flick the smaller boy's hand away from his cock. "John... John, I..."

"What- Oh my god! There!" One particular thrust was just right, hitting off John's prostate and sending an altogether new feeling through him which he'd never felt before. His hand fell away from his cock to grasp at Sherlock's shoulders. He moaned at him to 'do that again'.

Sherlock managed four, perhaps five more thrusts up against that spot before he went rigid, fingers sinking into John's hips and his mouth falling open in a sharp moan. He barely waited for the spreading heat from his orgasm to subside before he was sliding down, pulling out of John on the way and quickly swallowing his length down.

John almost whined at the loss of cock, feeling very open and wet. But when Sherlock took him into his mouth - careful of fangs, of course - he was quickly quietened. His hands twisted themselves into Sherlock's hair and he fucked Sherlock's mouth gently, not wanting to bruise his throat (again.) "Sherlock... Hng..." He was so close now.

Sherlock hummed around him, the smooth inner edges of his fangs just brushing the sides of John's length. Then, of all things, he slipped a hand up the inside of John's thigh and pressed two still-slick fingers into him, curling and crooking them up to where he guessed John's prostate would be. That was all it took. John's orgasm crashed through him, making him arch his back as he clamped down on Sherlock's fingers, and near-scream his name. He spilled himself in hot, thick spurts into his boyfriend's mouth, going slack after a moment. "Oh god..."

Sherlock swallowed almost greedily, finally pulling back, fingers slipping out, and cleaning off a last couple of drops with little kitten licks and flicks of his tongue. he had recovered enough from his own climax to sit back, strip the condom off and knot it before pitching it into the little bin next to John's bed. "So... I guess that was a little better, then?" He smiled, still flashing a bit of fang at the corners.

John huffed one breathy laugh and then a series of helpless giggles, still reeling from one of the best orgasms he'd had yet. "A little better, love, yes." Rolling over - and feeling quite sticky - he patted the bed beside him. "Get up here. I'm not moving for a while if the little twinge in my arse there is anything to go by."

Sherlock smiled gently but didn't lie down. "Let me just wash my hands and take these fangs out first. I don't quite trust them to sleep in." He laughed softly and heaved himself off the bed, padding still stark naked into the little attached loo to wash his hands and work the fangs off his teeth. He left them on the counter to fetch later, padding back into the bedroom to slip into bed next to John. Draping himself over the smaller boy's side, he nestled into his shoulder and closed his eyes.

What neither boy heard during all that, was the two chimes of John's text alert noise. On the bedside locker, two messages were left unread on the screen:

_New Message: Dad - 09:30 pm  
We need to talk, John.  
New Message: Unknown Number - 10:01 pm  
I must say, I'm surprised that neither of you came after dear little Molly and I. She told me all about your little realationship, Johnny Boy, and she is so terribly sweet... She sends her love. J x_


	10. Author's Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick update

I wasted an entire weekend not writing this. I got dragged places and that study I was supposed to do? Well... Hopefully I can cram eight subjects before my exams. Oops. 

I have a day off, so I'm going to see The Avengers *whoo*

Oh, and all of your support and feedback has been great :)

So anyway, I have _some_ of this chapter written so far but I'm leaving in a few minutes. When I get back I'll add more. School is just going to be HECTIC for the next three weeks so I don't know how quick my updates will be. Exams and all. But I'll try have a chapter up between tonight and tomorrow night. Don't worry!

Thanks again, lovelies.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: My old art teacher looked a hell of a lot like Moriarty. Of course, by the time I discovered this he was gone from my school. But yeah, Andrew Scott = My old art teacher look-alike... 
> 
> Yeah. Look-alike. Pft... :D
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the late delay! I already had two of my exams (well, one and a half) and I have a gazillion next week so... Updates will be slow. Also, I won't be available from the 24th May until the 2nd June so I'll at least try to have an updated chapter before then. I've already sacrificed today's "study" to write this so enjoy :)
> 
> As usual, comments have been great! Thank you. Any mistakes are the result of my fast typing and basic eagerness to get this posted.

John was the first one up the next morning. He was a bit... Sore after the previous night, not used to being the one actually being fucked. Biting down on his tongue to hold back a groan, John winced and stood up. It would take a while and maybe a cool bath to be able to walk properly. Thank god classes weren't resuming for another three days. He yanwed and picked up his mobile to flick through the unread messages. He was about to send a text back to his father asking what was wrong, until he saw the other message. There was only one person that _could_ be: Jim Moriarty. The kid was getting weirder and weirder every day. 

"John?" Sensing the lack of warmth in the bed, Sherlock rolled over. One side of his curls were tousled and stood out at all angles, matched with a half-red face. 

"Look." John sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned his boyfriend closer. With his arms wrapped around John's middle and his head resting on his shoulder, Sherlock peered at the phone's screen. "I got this last night... He knows about us."

"So do Greg and Molly."

"You don't think Molly told him, do you?" John glanced back with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock sighed and rolled back to flop against the duvet.

"Dunno. She knows better than that, John."

"Sherlock," John turned to face the younger boy with a creased brow. "I don't like this. I'm going to call Molly."

Sherlock just nodded. "Probably for the best. I have swim practice today anyway." 

Yawning, Sherlock threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching and showing off his nicely toned body. John couldn't help but smile up at him. Catching his eyes, Sherlock gave a little wink before sauntering off to the bathroom with a murmur of 'later on, darling,' and a small laugh.

John flopped back onto the bed and studied the text again. He went over everything in his head: Molly was scared before Mid-Term. It was because of Jim. Last night she went home with him... Either they were a couple or... Well, that much was for John to find out. But then he remembered the text from his dad. His dad only ever said that to him when he was in trouble or there was bad news. So he sent a reply back.

_Only woke up now. What's wrong?  
Sent to: Dad_

About two minutes later he got a reply:  
 _New Message: Dad - 11:13 am  
Come home this weekend. Alone. Your mum and I found something in your bedroom._

At that point Sherlock emerged. He was dressed in a plum coloured shirt and some dark jeans, and his kit bag was sitting by the door. Then he caught the look on John's face.

"John? You look as if you've just found out your dog died." He padded over to find his shoes, but continued to look at John. "It's your dad again, isn't it?"

"How can you tell?"

"I saw the other message on your phone when you were showing me the one from Molly." Sherlock shrugged and laced up his shoes. "What did he want?"

John shrugged and tossed his phone onto the locker. He got up and began to pace around, picking up his strewn about clothes and costume from last night, folding them up and putting them away. "He just told me to come home. They found something in my room..."

"Oh." Sherlock turned to John again with a little frown on his face. "Look, maybe they just found a porn magazine or-"

"Sherlock!"

"What? Don't most... ordinary teenage boys have a few raunchy magazines?"

"Not me! Harry was the one with the magazines. Though she did blame me a few times to cover up her sexuality crisis." John flopped onto the bed face down and sighed into the pillow. "Plus they wouldn't care about _that._ I just hope to god Harry isn't stashing drugs in my room or something."

Sherlock knelt on the bed gently and put his hand on John's back. "Whatever it is I'm sure you're not in too much trouble, John." He scooted closer on his knees and bent down, close enough so that he could press a soft kiss against the back of John's neck, nuzzling the soft blonde hairs there.

"I'll find out this weekend." John turned his head to look up at Sherlock. "You better go. Can't have you missing out on your practice what with finals coming up next week."

"Yes. But _you_ better not stress yourself. You have a match next week too." Though not as big as the swimming finals, winning a match wa still important to John. "I'll meet you this evening in the cafe downtown. Okay?"

"Yeah. And thanks, love." John smiled up gently at him and got a smile in return. And then Sherlock was gone, leaving john to his thoughts. He didn't text back his dad. Instead, he sent a text out to Molly. Complete with a white lie.

_Hi Molly. Can I borrow your biology book? Left mine back home during Mid Term.  
Sent to: Molly H._

It took a long time for Molly to reply. In the space of time that took John was able to straighten out the room and take a shower. Greg still wasn't home yet but John didn't expect that really. Usually he stayed with Dimmock on nights out, or if Dimmock wasn't able to put him up, then it was usually one of the other lads from the team. He respected John's privacy, especially when keeping a secret like being in a relationship with another boy at Briarwood's. 

Putting away the remainder of his books for this term, John wiped his hands on his corduroy jeans and picked up his phone.

_New Message: Molly H. - 13:00 pm  
Hi John. You can borrow my book. I'll drop it in this evening, bit occupied today._

_Thanks Molly. How was your night?  
Sent: Molly H._

This time, however, John didn't get a reply. That she replied to the first message was in itself a relief, but there was still questions about Jim and what the hell he wanted with Molly. The boy was just so odd. He was new enough too, from Ireland - Dublin, most likely - judging by his accent. This was going to bug him for ages. Not that it was really anything to do with him. If Molly was fine with Jim now then maybe he hadn't actually scared her that much. Deciding he needed some air before meeting Sherlock at the cafe, John put on his rugby hoodie and a pair of old trainers and went out for a walk.

He met Greg along the way. The boy looked incredibly tired and rather dishevelled. He almost walked completely by John, but the shorter boy stuck an arm out and caught him by the elbow.

"Greg?"

"John! Hi, sorry I didn't see you."

"I can tell. You look..."

"Like I'm having the worst hangover ever? Yeah, about accurate. Some of the boys managed to sneak in some alcohol and we all went down to the pitch once the party was over."

"And didn't get caught? Hope you at least cleaned up." John snorted and scuffed his feet against the ground.

"Yeah we did. We may have been drunk but we still had common sense." Greg yawned behind his hand and shook his head. "M'going to bed when I get back to our room. So no shagging while I'm in there." 

John gave him a playful swipe across the arm. "Oi! Oh by the way, I need to ask you something real quick. Did you see who Molly was with last night?" Greg shook his head and made a gesture for John to continue. "Jim. Jim Moriarty."

For a second there was a flash of something in Greg's eyes, almost like surprise but... Hurt too. "Left as in..."

"As in he was leading her back in the direction of her dorm. I take it you didn't notice her anyway."

"I noticed her!" Noting that he sounded a little bit defensive, Greg cleared his throat and John forced back a smirk. "I mean I noticed her at the party. But not with Jim. Look, I'll go up and check on her before I go back if you like."

"Yeah do. I already texted her and she said she was busy so maybe a different face would be better to appear at her doorstep. Just make sure she's okay. I don't trust Jim."

"Neither do I, John. I better get going." 

"Right. See you after." They shared their goodbyes and went their seperate ways. John mulled quietly over how adorable Greg's crush on Molly was. Everyone could see it but themselves, and nobody chose to bring it up in front of them. John had always hoped that the two of them would get together but with Jim now in the picture... Well. With a shake of his head John continued, wandering about the school's outer grounds and then the town. The fact that most of the school was either still at home until the school term started up again or still in their rooms, it gave John enough space to walk about.

Sherlock was starving. And his muscles were trained to the extreme. He'd swam 6000 yards of the pool in just over an hour without a break, which was very impressive for someone of his age. His coach had high hopes for him in next week's finals. By the time Sherlock had showered and got dressed again, it was already time to go and meet John. He was sore, but he could put up with it and walk the distance into town for some food.

John was waiting for him in the cafe. He was used to this routine they often had even before they started dating, so when Sherlock pushed through the doors and slumped down in the seat across from him, there was a steaming cup of hot tea waiting for him with a plate of tasted sandwiches.

"You even asked them to leave out the tomatoes, John. You are amazing."

"Hello to you too." John smiled and leaned forward on his seat. "How did it go?"

"Hm?" Sherloclk already had a mouthful of sandwich before John could finish speaking. Swallowing it down, he gave a nod. "Very good! I've beaten my old record. Coach thinks I have a great chance next week for the team." He was on his second sandwich already. That was the thing with Sherlock; he didn't eat an awful lot of the time, but when he did, he filled up. 

"I'm proud of you. And I'll be even prouder when you win."

Sherlock concealed his smile over his tea. He felt John put his a over his own and looked up. "I'm serious, Sherlock. This is great for you." There was more to his eyes than just pride. Sherlock wasn't sure what exactly, but they seemed to shine a little brighter.

"John?"

"Yes?" Was John leaning even closer?

"...I need to pick up my fork."

"Oh." Blinking, John turned a bit red and sat back. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Sherlock gave him a re-assuring smile. "You look like you want to say something. Go ahead."

"W-what? No..." Why was John's heart beating so fast? Why were his palms suddenly sweaty? He forced himself to relax. 

"John." With something of an amused look on his face, Sherlock leaned closer and linked his fingers under his chin. "Your pupils are dilated and, if I'm correct which I have a feeling I am, your pulse is accelerated. Now... What could possibly have you so nervous? Could it be-"

"I love you." There, he said it. "I know we've only been dating for a short while but god, Sherlock, the things you do to me. I've never felt this way for anybody before and my years of knowing you have been the best but since we've gotten together the feelings I had for you just got a million times more-"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to shut John up. With a kiss. 

"Mmf, Sherlock!" John pulled back and looked about the cafe. When he heard Sherlock laughing he snapped his head around. "Are you mental?"

"John this place is practically empty apart from the elderly couple in the corner, and the waitress."

"...Good point." And then John was smiling too.

"How about we finish up here and go back to my room?"

"Good plan." John took a breath and relaxed back into his seat. At that point, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

_New Message: Greg - 16:00 pm  
No answer at Molly's place and her room-mates haven't seen her since the party last night. No answer on her phone either. I tried Jim's dorm but I can't find him anywhere. Bit worried._

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock gulped down the last of his tea and pushed his plate away. 

"I think we have a problem."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:  
>  I'm going away tomorrow until next Saturday so I won't upload next until after then. I wanted to get a chapter up before I left though. Right, so I've taken a bit of a break from the plot. Just imagine this as Sherlock and John going back to Sherlock's apartment after the cafe scene and being all horny. They need to let off a bit of steam before going after poor Molly and Jim :D
> 
> So yeah, porn before plot because I need time to think up some good ideas. I'll be back some time after the 5th of June at best.

Despite their fears about Molly and her safety, John and Sherlock just couldn't keep their hands off each other when they got in. Sherlock pushed john down onto the bed and straddled him. He kissed John softly, hands running through the shorter boy's hair. John hummed affectionately and tipped his head back.

"Has my confession of love gotten you hot and ready, love?" John laughed and pushed Sherlock back enough to sit upright with him. "You must be all tense from swimming all those laps. Go undress and I'll take care of you." Sherlock smirked and stood up, stepping back to pull off his t-shirt and unbuckle his belt.

John watched his boyfriend stand back, eyes raking all the way up. The exposed skin of his chest made John widen his legs a bit before he stood up, and padded over to Sherlock. "God, you're beautiful." He pulled him close the waitsband of his trousers from his trousers, kissing him deeply as he helped him undo the zipper.  
Any witty reply the taller boy would have managed was lost in John's mouth. Eventually, however, his trousers were being pulled down and Sherlock broke the kiss. John pulled his shirt off over his head and took off his belt, tossing it aside. "I'm going to ask you to go on your knees, if you will." John worked off his trousers and stepped out of them, leaving him in just his boxers - red, with white stripes. He was half-hard already.

Sherlock blinked once, a little startled; John so far hadn't really been very... Specific about what he wanted. Giving a short nod, Sherlock climbed onto the bed and knelt down, facing John. His head was still lifted proudly, of course, chin up and his eyes locked on John's face; there wasn't a single submissive thing about the pose.

John, though he hadn't told anyone, knew quite a lot of foreplay techniques, one of which he was going to try for the first time; rimming. He swallowed and knelt on front of Sherlock, tucking curls back off his face. "I want you on all fours in a minute. But I want you hard first." One hand slid down Sherlock's body to his crotch, kneading it through the fabric of his underwear.

Sherlock bit off his reply, resting a very slightly shaky hand on John's thigh. His boyfriend's fingers were warm, almost too warm, but he was hardly complaining; the heat and friction meant that it was only a few moments before he was mostly hard and straining against the front of his briefs. Reluctantly pulling away from John, he shimmied out of his underwear and shifted onto all fours on the bed, all without making a sound.

John stood up and pulled down his boxers, tossing them to the pile of clothes by the couch. He took a moment to look at Sherlock, eyes roaming over the smooth expanse of his back. He kept his eyes fixed on it as he walked behind Sherlock and knelt down. He shimmied forward and draped his body over the taller boy's. Pressing kisses along Sherlock's spine, John slid down until he was pressing his mouth to the small of his back.   
Breathing out a sigh, Sherlock let the arch of his back soften under John's hands and lifted one knee at a time to wriggle out of his briefs. He wasn't quite desperately hard, yet, but the soft hands on his back and the press of John's weight against him were getting him awfully close.

"John... You're an insufferable tease, you know that?" Glancing back over his shoulder, Sherlock let the corner of his mouth curl up into a slight smirk.

"Oh, no more than you, my love." He shot a wink over at Sherlock and replaced his mouth back onto his lower back. His kisses trailed lower, with his hands slowly massaging the smooth skin. He poked his tongue out and let it trail down, lower and lower, until he was pushing the tip of it at Sherlock's balls; it required quite a stretch, but it was worth it.

"How am I... Nngh... How am I an insufferable tease?" His hips shifted under the attention, just a little restless shift for the sensation that wasn't quite pleasure. Very pleasant, certainly, but still just below that edge that would make it actual pleasure. "You're just..." Trailing off, he let his head drop forward again and lightly curled his fingers against the rug. "Get on with it, then."

John dragged his tongue up and spread Sherlock open for better access. "With pleasure." He let his tongue scrape around that rim of muscle with practiced precision. He teased a few times, poking it in and out, blowing against the wet heat. All the while, his hands had slipped around to Sherlock's cock, stroking him off at the same time.

Sherlock hissed at first; he'd practically been asking for that edge of pleasure, but to have it all fall all at once like that was almost too much. His elbows quaked, threatening to give out under him and pitch him facefirst into the duvet, and a little tremor ran down his thighs. His hips gave a little stutter, torn between pressing back into John's tongue or pushing forward into the clever hand wrapped around his cock. "God." He exhaled raggedly and let his head drop forward, his curls falling loosely around his face. John pulled his tongue back after another moment, still stroking his cock as he shimmied up. 

"I'm going to fuck you now." He removed his hands and placed them on Sherlock's hips. "But I haven't got any condoms or lube... Will you be alright or do you want me to run back to my room? Mind you, Greg will know exactly what we're up to, seeing as I'm hard as a bloody rock." He asked this with his cock all but rubbing against Sherlock's arse.

"I'll be fine, John... Just... Please." He pressed his hips back with a soft groan. Sherlock found he quite liked this more dominant side of John. He especially liked what the hard length of John's cock laying warm and heavy against him promised, even if it wasn't anything new. "I'll be fine, really, just get on with it."

Without saying anything more, John lined himself up at Sherlock's entrance and, slow but not painfully slow, he pushed in. He bit down on his lower lip and pushed in until he was all the way to the hilt, then he stopped. "God you're tight..." It was glorious, though, being encased by his heat. Giving his hips a few testing twitches, John began to pull back.

Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip to muffle a curse, fingers clutching at the duvet. Yes, it hurt, but not enough to make him want to stop. Since he hadn't been stretched out, he was _very_ conscious of the width and length of John's cock pushing up into him. All he could manage was a soft moan, the line of his back tensing and his arms giving another threatening little quake. John pulled out until just the head of his cock was inside Sherlock, and when he thrust forward again without too much force, he wrapped his arm around Sherlock's body, holding him by the stomach. They were all but melded together. He could feel the muscles underneath his hands tighten and release with Sherlock's moans. 

"Sherlock..." breathed John, fucking him at an unrushed pace.

Sherlock tipped his head back a little toward John's voice, his eyes only half-open. The sharp burn of John's first thrust faded into a dull, soft ache, gradually forced out by the familiar pleasure of it. John's hand brushed against his cock, forcing a sharp breath out of him and making his stomach tense a little harder against his boyfriend's hand. John's hand was subconsciously rubbing at his husband's stomach, and he was muttering little incoherent things into his ear - mostly dirty sweet talk. He built up speed by just a fraction, thrusting in and up, trying to find Sherlock's prostate. 

"God, Sherlock... Hngh..." John was rolling his hips right into him, groaning with every move now.

The younger boy keened quite suddenly under him, his toes curling. The angle wasn't ideal, but it was enough to make him tense and cry out. John's noises weren't helping, either... In fact, the groan of his name into Sherlock's ear actually made his cock give a hopeful little twitch upward.

John wasn't even sure what he was saying now, hell, he could have been saying three Hail Marys for all he actually cared. Heat coiled in his stomach and he could feel his balls tighten up. One hand moved from his stomach to Sherlock's hair, knotting into the curls and giving just a little tug up; why, he didn't know. But it was almost like a weird reflex action. "Fuck- Sherlock!"

That little tug drew a surprising reaction from Sherlock. He flung his head back against John's hand, his mouth falling open in surprise and a sharp moan tearing out of him. Something in him snapped, and a second later he was coming without even being properly touched. His elbows would have given out if it weren't for the hand fisted into his curls, and his legs were trembling a little now.

John wasn't far to follow, having Sherlock's already tight heat clamp even tighter around his cock. It was bliss - dirty, shagging (literally) bliss. "Aangh, Sherlock!" The name spilling from his lips was guttural and choked and John tugged on Sherlock's hair as he came, spilling into his boyfriend. Sherlock managed a hitched little breath before his limbs finally went quite limp, John's now-slack weight carrying him onto the softness of the rug under his stomach. He dutifully ignored the sticky spot on the rug just below his navel, and turned his head so his nose wasn't mashed against the duvet. "Christ John... What the _hell_ was all that, then?"

John took a moment to relax and catch his breath before he did anything. He managed a mumbled reply and pulled out of Sherlock, already softening now. He collapsed beside him and lay on his side. "Was it not good? Fuck, I don't know. I was just randy..." He covered his still flushed face with his arm and started to laugh softly.

"Don't get me wrong, it was fantastic... And I still can't quite feel my legs... But you aren't usually quite so demanding." He made a valiant attempt at sitting upright. Really he did. Only the attempt ended up with him flopping back down onto the bed in an undignified sprawl of limbs and pale flesh. 

"You're usually the demanding one in this relationship..." John smirked and rolled over onto his knees, pushing himself up. Sherlock couldn't ignore the rapidly cooling and now much more sticky spot under his abdomen, so he rolled toward John a little to get away from it. "I'm not looking forward to cleaning this up..."

"Oh, um... Dry cleaners I suppose." John chuckled and sat up, pushing himself onto his feet. "Hm, it's getting a bit late. Do you want some help getting up?" He nodded at where Sherlock was lying, still limp-limbed.  
Sherlock shook his head; it finally took clutching at the headboard to haul himself at least mostly upright. Christ, he hadn't been this weak-kneed since the first time he and John were together. "Well, I'm going to feel this in the morning... Not that I'm complaining." Putting a hand in the small of his back, he managed to get completely upright and arch his back to stretch out the taut muscles.

John picked up their clothes and handed Sherlock his own, dressing into just his boxers. "Do you want me to try ring Molly again before I go back?" 

Sherlock shook his head. "No, leave this to me and I'll come visit you and Greg in the morning. Make sure he stays calm though." He managed to get into his briefs and his trousers, though not without some difficulty. "I'm going to just... Have a shower and freshen up, alright?" Even dressed, he could feel a very slight, rather uncomfortable trickle of moisture running down the back of his thigh.

"Okay." John reached out and touched Sherlock's cheek with his left hand, before letting it fall away. "I'll text you later. Bye, love." He bent down to give Sherlock a long, slow kiss, hand stroking his cheek gently. He refrained from saying 'I love you' again, simply because it might have been too much for one day. Besides, he had to go back to Greg and find out what exactly happened with Molly. Sherlock smiled as he watched John leave, before dragging his laptop onto his bed and snuggled into his duvet; he had some planning and research to do.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaack. Hopefully this chapter brings us all up to speed with where it's going. I'm also thinking of bringing the chapter count to around 15/16, depending. And then an epilogue?

There was an overwhelming aroma of something musky in the air. It reminded Molly of her grandfather's Old Spice, she thought, as she slowly came 'round. Her head was throbbing and she could barely open her eyes. She ended up looking through what felt like two razor blade slits, and everything she could see was blurred and dark. The only light source came from a small crack in the curtains. Curtains... Beside a bed... A bedroom? Twisting her head slowly so as not to ignite the pain any more, Molly's face met with thick carpet. She coughed, spitting out the fibres that entered her mouth, and raised her head as much as she could. 

In the corner of the room, she could see a dark figure shrouded in shadow. _Jim._

"Ah." Jim rose and swanned over to where she lay on the ground. He knelt down and, placing two fingers under her chin, delicately tilted her head up. When Molly tried to speak, she just ended up squeaking. "Oh, hush now my dear Molly. This will all be over soon..."

Her hands were tied behind her back, she discovered, when he pulled her into an upright kneeling position. There was no feeling in them apart from the very barest of tingles. Jim left her for a few beats and then was back, a small bottle of water in his hand.

"I know what you're thinking, Molly. You thought I was such a nice young man the day you met me. And then there was our little... Date." His smirk was utterly wicked. "Did you have fun? I know I did. You're so easy to tie up." With a delicate laugh, Jim uncapped the bottle and held it to her lips. He helped her take a small sip. "There's a good girl, drink up now. We can't have you going back hoarse."

"Jim-"

"Shh... Just drink." He smoothed back her hair again. "You looked delicious at the party. I bet that Lestrade fellow thought so too - his eyes were following you all night. Until I led you away that is. But you know who looked even _more_ delicious?" Jim leaned closer to Molly and she did her best not to flinch back. "Sherlock Holmes."

Molly's eyes widened and he laughed again. Shuffling around behind her, Jim stroked the silken scarves tying her hands together. "I'm going to let you go soon. But first, I need you to promise me something. Will you make a promise for me, Molly?"

She nodded and he hummed in delight.

"I want you to lead John Watson here. Do you know why?" He didn't give her a chance to reply, simply leaned even closer so his lips were by his ear. "Because I want Sherlock all to myself. And with his little _pet_ by his side I just can't do that. But I always get what I want."

He started slowly untying Molly, his fingers undoing the knots almost gingerly; the scarf was Westwood, after all.

***

"Mycroft? I need your help." Sherlock said those words with utter distaste through the phone. But it had to be done. On the other side, he could almost imagine his brother's surprise. Mycroft was twenty-three and already on the high end of the government. What his actual role was, Sherlock didn't particularly know or care for. 

"You're asking for help? Good Lord, has the Apocalypse come already?"

"Don't be an arse, Mycroft! Look, are you willing to help or not?"

Mycroft tutted. "Such language. Fine, what do you need?"

"I'm in... Danger... Sort of."

"What have you done now?" Mycroft's tone of voice was weary. He just hoped this was no more 'danger' than the kind he used to get into as a child: the stuck up in a tree and ready to fall type of danger.

"It doesn't matter."

"To Hell it doesn't. You're my younger brother, Sherlock, and if you think-"

"Fine! God, when did you become so interested in my safety?" Sherlock huffed and swung his legs down over the side of his bed, walking over to his desk to sit down. 

"Just tell me. What is going on?"

"Ever heard of James Moriarty?" Sherlock held the phone to his ear by his shoulder and dug out a pen and paper. When Mycroft said no, Sherlock took the phone into his hand again. "Well you're about to. He's kidnapped a friend of mine, Molly Hooper, but he thinks I don't know."

"How exactly do you know?"

"Nothing gets past me, Mycroft. Well, except Moriarty… But not for long. Look, I need you to send down some items. Can you do that?"

"That all depends." Sherlock heard his older brother sigh on the other end. Sherlock never asked for help from him. It must be big. "I have a feeling there's more to this than what you're telling me. Look, I have a fifteen minute break now. Why don't we have a proper chat where you tell me the whole story and then we'll negotiate what you need. Sound fair?"

Sherlock groaned and was about to protest, but Mycroft spoke through again. "Don't make me order you, Sherlock."

Realising that this was the only way to save Molly (and John, if his fears were correct - and they probably were), Sherlock gave in. "Fine, you have a deal. I may as well start with John Watson…"

***

Shit. Shit shit shit. Now was really not the time to figure out what his dad was talking about. But it hit him like a punch to the gut… Well, no that was actually the rugby ball.

"Watson! Wake up!" John's coach's voice boomed down the pitch, making John snap out of the cold fear of realisation. He shook his head, grabbing the ball from the ground and ignoring the pain on his stomach where a bruise was surely going to form. He ran down with it and passed it to Lestrade, giving his team the 'wait a minute' signal with his hand. 

"John? What's wrong?" Keelan Powell, their best and burliest Flanker - sometimes known as the Friendly Giant - cocked his head. "You're white as a ghost, mate."

"Probably pregnant." Anderson sneered. John shot him a glare. How did that little weasel even make the team? When… No, _if_ John made it as Captain, Anderson was going to be made a sub. "What? We all know you're bonking someone. Probably Holmes going by how much time you spend together."

"Shut the fuck up, Anderson!"

"Ooh, touchy." Unlike the last time John had a fight with Anderson, less people laughed at him. Most just shuffled awkwardly on their feet, looking to their coach for guidance. The man came between them and put a hand on John's chest to keep him from knocking Anderson out.

"Lads! Anderson, don't start. John… Take five. Go on, you're not looking so good." John loosened his balled up hands and flexed his fingers. No, he didn't look good. He didn't feel good either and if he didn't get to a bathroom soon-

Too late. He got to the edge of the pitch before he started to throw up. It wasn't so much that he felt sick than the realization that had hit him earlier; the reason his dad wanted him to come home that weekend. 

John forgot to empty his bin in his room. The bin in which he had unthinkingly tossed away the condom.

After a moment, he felt a hand on his back. "John? Don't worry about Anderson. Coach'll deal with him later." Greg peered down and helped him stand up straighter. "It's alright, mate, come on. Let's get you cleaned up, eh?"

"I'm in deep shit Greg."

"Why?" Greg soothed a hand up and down his back as he walked him towards the dorms. What John needed now was a shower and some rest.

"I think my dad knows about me and Sherlock."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my good god I am sorry. I had no motivation to update this for a while because of personal reasons. I got distracted and lazy and put it off but I FINALLY got around to it. It's in the morning and this was checked over just once. Any mistakes are entirely my own.
> 
> Age of consent in the UK is 16. Here in Ireland it's 17, but because this is set in England, the former applies. Warnings for homophobic slang.

Molly had been released with severe warnings that if she didn't complete her task by the next week week, there would be consequences. She hadn't looked back as she staggered back to her dorm and into her room, flinging herself onto her bed. Irene and Sally weren't back yet, which was probably a good thing. Molly needed to think. She didn't want to betray John by leading him directly into Jim's clutches, but if she didn't... Well, she hadn't actually been told what the consequences were. However, going by the harsh and frankly _menacing_ hiss in Jim's voice, it wouldn't end pretty for anybody.

She curled up into a ball and squeezed her eyes shut. She felt dirty and evil, and all she wanted was for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. 

*

John was fidgety the whole train-ride home. After a long conversation with Sherlock concerning his dad, the pair had come to a mutual agreement that John going home alone was probably best; Mr. Watson was a straight-laced man. To have his son's potential boyfriend there after the discovery of the condom... It was probably best for everyone. John was shitting it. What the fuck was he supposed to say? 'Oh, hi dad, yes Sherlock and I _are_ fucking on a regular basis. Yes, yes I did get Molly to pretend she was my girlfriend for your sake. How's mum doing?' 

John groaned and slumped forward onto the narrow train table. He just hoped his father wasn't going to disown him when he told the truth (wasn't that for the best?). It wouldn't surprise him if he did anyway. 

Twenty minutes later, John stepped off the train onto the platform and looked for his dad. To his left, Gerald Watson coughed, making John jump and clutch his bag tighter.

"...Evening."

"Good Evening." Mr. Watson's voice was gruff. He avoided John's eyes and took his bag from him. John wordlessly followed him to the car park and sat into the passenger side. The uncomfortable knot in his stomach tightened tenfold and he closed his eyes, his head tipping sidewards against the window. The car dipped a bit when his father sat in. For a while neither of them moved. After what felt like an eternity, Mr. Watson coughed. 

"John-"

"No, dad, not now. Please. Just wait until we get home, alright?" He meant to sound defensive. Instead, he sounded weary. He felt heat creep into his cheeks as he glanced over at his dad. 

"Fine." Mr. Watson's shoulders heaved in a silent sigh and he started up the car. Neither of them spoke, and John was grateful for the low murmur of the radio. It kept him at least a little bit distracted from what was bound to come; the calm before the strom, he mused.

Usually John liked coming home. Especially if he came home with Sherlock. But this time, the familiar front lawn and driveway of his terraced house looked daunting, and the lights inside didn't hold the prospect of a hot dinner and a warm bed. Getting out of the car and up to his front door felt like a walk of shame. After dropping his bag under the hall table, John turned to his dad.

"Your mum's in there." Mr. Watson nodded to the kitchen. "Go on in." 

The kitchen wasn't filled with smells of his mum's casserole, or a roast chicken dinner. Not even a cup of tea was waiting for him. Instead, his mother was sitting with a newspaper on one side of the small table. Upon John's arrival, she folded the paper and set it to one side. Her mousy brown hair was tucked behind her ears, the choppy ends resting just by her shoulders. Her eyes- John had her eyes - were hard set and her mouth was set in a hard line. 

"Sit down, John." John tried not to roll his eyes at his mother's tone. Jesus Christ, what was this? An American soap opera? Even as a child John had never been brought in for a 'talk'. He'd seen it been done to Harry after her first binge drinking incident. She was fourteen at the time and had come home smashed. John remembered being sent out to play in the garden while Harry faced the wrath of their parents.

Dropping into the seat opposite, John watched as his father sat down beside her. 

"What is this? An interrogation?"

"Don't be smart, John." Mr. Watson folded his arms. "Look, you got my text. I'm sure you know why we want to speak to you."

"Please be honest with us." Mrs. Watson's voice had gone a little bit softer, but she still had a hard set face. "You and Sherlock..."

"Yes?" John shrugged. "What about us."

"You know right well what, John Hamish Watson. Don't even try to avoid the question." Mr. Watson was growing annoyed.

"What _question?_ " John unfolded his arms and held the edge of the table. "You just said 'you and Sherlock...' That's not a question!"

"John, don't-"

"Don't what? Don't be smart? Cheeky? Look, cut to the chase." John's mind was screaming at him to shut the fuck up before he dug a bigger hole. "You found a condom in my bedroom. My bedroom that Sherlock and I slept in." _Shut up_ "You think we're shagging. Well you guessed correctly." John scraped his chair back and stood up, feeling his cheeks redden. He was sick of hiding, sick of pretending to be their perfect son. "Mum, Dad, I'm seventeen years old. Both Sherlock and I are at and over the age of consent. We've been... We've been going out for a while now and I-" John cut off, bringing a hand to his face and sighing into his palm.

His parents stayed silent. They were more than a little shocked at John's outburst - sweet, placid John. It was out of character.

For what felt like minutes - it was really only seconds - of silence, John straightened up and cleared his throat. "It doesn't matter. Yeah, your perfect son turned out to be a pouf. A queer. A faggot. And if you plan on kicking me out of the family then just get on with it already. I'm beyond caring." John's voice had gradually become lower, slower, until it was just above a whisper. He didn't even look at his parents as he turned on his heels and made for the stairs, grabbing his bag on the way up. Tomorrow, he was going to get the first train back to Briarwoods.

As he climbed the stairs, he could hear his parents speaking in hushed tones. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he could hear his name a few times. He fully expected to wake up to find more than just his school possessions packed in a bag. His mother's heart was probably breaking but he just couldn't give a shit.

At the top of the stairs, Harry was leaning over the banister and brushing her teeth. She'd obviously been listening, judging by the way she arched one eybrow and smirked around the head of the toothbrush. Not in the mood to deal with his older sister, John just shook his head and ignored her. In his room, he shut his door none too quietly and unpacked his laptop.

The instant messenger pinged as soon as he logged on:

 **(20:01) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk:** How did it go?

 **(20:01) Watson06@live.co.uk:** Not good. Shouted at parents. Went straight upstairs after. Disappointment to family etc.

 **(20:01) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk:** Did they say that?

 **(20:02) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk:** John?

 **(20:02) Watson06@live.co.uk:** no.

 **(20:02) Watson06@live.co.uk:** but I am.

 **(20:03) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk:** John Watson, you are not a disappointment. You are a wonderful person, if an idiot at times.

 **(20:04) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk:** John? You know what I mean. Look, don't come back tomorrow.

 **(20:04) Watson06@live.co.uk:** What, why? And I know what you meant.

**(20:04) Sherlock_Holmes@live.co.uk has signed out.**

"Great." John muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Just marvellous."

As if on cue, his phone beeped:

_New message: Sherlock - 08:05 pm  
Sorry, internet got cut. Look, don't come back because I'm going up there. Don't try and talk me out of it, John. Just trust me on this one. I'll be at your house around noon._

_This is not a good idea. But fine. I miss you.  
Sent to: Sherlock_

_New message: Sherlock - 08:06 pm  
I miss you too John. Now, I have to shower and pack a bag. Try to get some rest. Everything will be okay._

_Night. I love you.  
Sent to: Sherlock_

_New Message: Sherlock - 08:10 pm  
I love you too, John. Now go to sleep._

John had to look at his phone a few times for what Sherlock sent to actually register. John may have confessed his feelings a couple of days ago, but this was the first time Sherlock had said those words back.

I love you. I love you. The words played like a record in John's mind. Sure, it had taken him four minutes, but John wasn't even expecting a reply. For the first time since he came home, the weight in John's chest lifted, and he felt rather happy. After turning off his laptop and making a quick pitstop to the bathroom - everything downstairs was quiet - John then climbed into bed. 

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Main focus of this chapter is The Discussion, as I've labelled it.

As the train pulled up at Birmingham New Street Station at half past eleven with a low whistle, Sherlock collected his bag from under his seat and made his way out onto the platform. John's house was a forty minute cab ride away if the traffic wasn't too heavy. Sherlock didn't know what exactly to expect when he got to John's. He knew from experience that Mr. and Mrs. Watson were a very right-wing couple. He was sure they had John's future already pictured in their minds: career, possibly football, wife, two and a half children, big house with a white picket fence... The thought alone made him sigh aloud. It was all very pedestrian.

A cab pulled up almost straight away when Sherlock approached the road.

"Where to, then?" The cabbie asked, as Sherlock slid in to the back seat and placed his bag on his knees. He was wearing his long black coat and blue scarf, along with a pair of black leather gloves. 

"Wythall please, the village centre." John lived in a village near the outskirts of Birmingham. It was quite small in comparison to surrounding areas, but it was quaint nonetheless. Sherlock had been there a handful of times since they'd become friends, but this would only be the second time as John's boyfriend. Unlike the last time, Sherlock wouldn't exactly be welcomed, if last night's conversation with John was anything to go by. 

He was quiet for the remainder of his journey, not really bothering to respond to the cabbie's small talk. Eventually he gave up and they drove on in silence, which was pierced occasionally by the little intercom in the front of the cab. He let his head rest against the window, staring out at the passing countryside. It felt like an eternity had passed by the time the cab turned 'round a corner and Wythall village came into view. 

"Just on the green, then?" The cabbie asked.

"Please. Just up here." Sherlock sat up straighter. The moment the cab pulled up next to an old post office across from a grassy pucnic area, Sherlock handed him the correct fare and let himself out. John's house was just down the road, less than five minutes away. Sherlock needed those extra few minutes to get some fresh air and go over things in his mind. Before he set off, he pulled out his phone and sent a text to John:

_I'm almost there.  
Sent to: John_

Hitching his bag over his shoulder, Sherlock stuffed his gloved hands into his pockets and set off for 2 Wythall Terrace. 

*

"Shit. Bollox!" John kicked the covers off himself and rolled out of bed. He'd been asleep, despite it being just after noon, when his phone buzzed. Sherlock would be here in two bloody minutes and John wasn't even dressed. Muttering curses at himself for not setting an alarm, John dropped to his knees and rooted through his weekend bag for something to cover himself with. He found an old t-shirt and slipped it on, not bothering to find pyjama bottoms; he'd wandered his house in boxers and a t-shirt many times before.

John caught sight of himself in the mirror of his wardrobe as he slipped his feet into slippers. He did literally look like he just rolled out of bed, his hair fluffed out in all directions and sleep still crusted into the corner of his eyes. He ran a hand through his blonde hair in attempt to flatten it somewhat, and picked out the sand from his eyes. He'd have to do. Because his bedroom was located right over the kitchen, John could hear the drone of the radio coming through the floorboards. So his parents were up then. 

God, he hated this. Having to face them. He didn't even get the chance to warn them about Sherlock. Actually, that was probably a good thing, considering his outburst the night before. As John crept down the stairs, he peeked through the banister. The kitchen door was shut, but through the frosted glass he could see the outline of his parents at the breakfast table. Bringing his knees up to his chin, John wrapped his arms around them and waited for Sherlock. He'd be able to see his silhouette through the front door.

When three more minutes passed without a sign of Sherlock, John was tempted to go back up and find his phone to text him. But as he moved to stand, he spotted a figure trailing down the driveway and he shot up in an instant to open the door. His heart was thumping in his chest.

"Sherlock." 

"Morning." Sherlock murmured. He raked his eyes over John and smirked. "Up long, then?"

John snorted quietly and stepped back, widening the door for Sherlock to come through. The taller boy wiped his feet on the welcome mat and stepped into the hallway. He was about to say something else, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the kitchen door opened.

 

"Harry? Who's at the..." Mr. Watson paused, eyes narrowing at his son and his... his _boyfriend_. He cleared his throat and shuffled back a bit. "Georgina?"

Mrs. Watson appeared at his side a moment later. "What's the- Oh. Right... Well." Of the two of John's parents, Mrs. Watson was a lot more docile than John's father. "Gerald, why don't you go fetch some turf for the fire, yeah?" She gave her husband a look that told him she had this under control. With a grunt of annoyance more than anything else, Mr. Watson turned and disappeared into the kitchen and out the back.

John released a sigh of relief and shut the front door. "Mum."

 

"It's alright, John, let me." Sherlock touched John's arm briefly and then looked over at his mother. "Mrs. Watson, I'm aware that you know of John and I's relationship."

"Yes. I do now, anyway." She looked over Sherlock and then to John. After a few beats, she gestured to the living room. "Look, why don't you two go in and sit down. I'll make a pot of tea and then we can talk, alright?"

John ran a hand through his hair and then nodded. He supposed it was probably better to talk now, with Sherlock present, than last night. "Fine. Come on." He led the way into the living room and waited for Sherlock to join him, giving his sister a glare. She was spread out on the couch with her feet propped up on the arm, dressed in sweats and a hoodie. From the look she gave the couple, it seemed Harriet Watson found the whole thing rather amusing.

"Harry, get out."

"Oi! Don't tell me what to do."

"Out!"

With a loud huff, John's sister lifted herself from the couch and purposely elbowed her brother on the way out. "Fine. Clara's waiting for me anyway." The door slammed shut after her. 

They were finally alone. Sherlock picked up on John's unease and he gave the smaller boy a nudge towards the couch. John's living room was the biggest room of the house. A large window framed by net curtains gave a view of the front lawn. There was a television in one corner, a computer in the other, and a fireplace, in front of which sat a couch and two armchairs. 

Shedding his coat, Sherlock sat next to John and folded the coat between them. He was dressed in a deep purple shirt and black trousers in way of black jeans. "Are you alright?"

"We're probably going to get a lecture about leaving condoms lying around. That, and my father is probably going to kick me out. No, I'm not exactly 'alright'." John whined and leaned back against the soft leather.

"Don't jump to conclusions, John. If your father wanted you out, he probably would have done so by now. And if they really didn't approve, do you think I'd still have been let into the house?"

"...No, likely not." John let his head roll to the side and he blinked slowly up at his boyfriend. "You're usually the erratic one. Normally I'm the one calming _you_ down."

"You've had a good effect on me, John Watson." The corners of Sherlock's lips tugged up at the corners and John smiled back. It was in that moment of quiet exchange, of fingertips touching on top of the coat between them, that Mrs. Watson walked in with a tray of tea. The boys sat up straighter, John clearing his throat to look up at his mother. If she had just witnessed their little moment then she decided not to comment.

"Do you take sugar in your tea, Sherlock?" Mrs. Watson asked. She separated the teacups and set them out on the little coffee table.

"Just one." The door opened once more and Mr. Watson walked in carrying a bucket of turf and coal. An awkward silence settled over the four of them, the only sounds being the preparation of tea and the fire being lit. Sherlock took his teacup with a gracious thank you. John took his wordlessly and then set it down by his feet. He was fully prepared for an awkward conversation.

Standing up, Mr. Watson dusted down his trousers and set the fireguard in front of the meagre looking fire. He turned to face the little group of people before stepping up beside his wife and muttering something into her ear. John's mother gave a little nod, ignoring her son's confused expression.

"John dear, could you help me take in the washing, please? I don't think it's going to be dry all day." She raised her eyebrows and waited for John's reply. Giving Sherlock an apologetic look, John just nodded and stood to follow his mother out the door. He caught Sherlock's eye on the way out, and before he knew it, the younger boy was left alone in the sitting room with John's father. 

Sherlock felt cold, like he was breathing in winter air that was sucking all the heat out of him. He waited for the inevitable screaming match. For a moment Mr. Watson was silent. He rose, then stood by a small drinks cabinet and surveyed the glasses and bottles as if considering pouring himself out one instead of drinking his tea. Flicking his eyes to Sherlock, he narrowed them and cleared his throat gruffly. "I don't suppose you drink - you shouldn't - so I'm not going to offer you some whiskey." He gestured to the small couch next to the cabinet and waited for Sherlock to obey him. 

"No, sir, I don't drink. Can't abide even the smell of it." He sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa, hands folded neatly in his lap and his heels just barely touching the carpet. Mr Watson seemed a lot calmer than he'd expected him to be, and Sherlock scooted back on the couch so he wasn't in danger of sliding right off onto the floor.

"...Good. At least you have good sense." Gerald muttered. In the end, he did pour himself a drink but left it on the cabinet shelf, not yet touching it - that was clearly for afterwards. "Sherlock, are you and my son going out for long? And how long?" His voice was rather weary. Obviously John hadn't said so last night.

Sherlock swallowed. "We've been... Together for close to two months now. John was understandably reluctant about telling you and Mrs. Watson." Sherlock knotted his fingers together in his lap and stared down at them for a moment. "I have done only what I thought was best for your son, sir. And John means the world to me."

Mr. Watson said nothing, his eyebrows knitting together. His fingers traced around the patern of the glass and he looked over at Sherlock. In his head, he mulled over everything. It was a little bit sad that John wasn't dating that Molly girl, but there was a definite change to his overall mood. John seemed to have improved not only in his sport but in general; he was a much happier boy. With a sigh, Mr. Watson straightened up. 

"I'm not ecstatic with this Sherlock and if I could alter John's ways then I would." Mr Watson rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment. "...I don't think I can though. So I'm going to ask you one thing: why are you with John? I know what happens to queers around here and I never want John to be hurt."

"I'll be completely truthful with you, sir. I am... Very deeply attached to your son. I understand that you are not happy, and I am aware of what you have discovered in John's bedroom." Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up a bit, but continued on. He came here to get Mr. Watson's approval and that was what he was going to do. "I only wish to see him happy, and every time that he smiles, I am the proudest person in the world to know that I am the one who made him smile. He is very special to me, sir, and I wouldn't trade him for all the love and money in this world and the hereafter."

During Sherlock's speech Mr. Watson listened, sat back, crossed and then uncrossed his arms. When the boy had stopped speaking, he raised his head, met his eyes, and sighed. "John!" He called to the partially open door. A moment later and John poked his head around the corner, his mother visible in the background. John stepped in, glanced down at Sherlock, and then to his dad.

"Yes?" 

At that his father gestured to the space beside Sherlock. "Sit." 

John sat, sitting close to Sherlock. His hand, despite his father's sharp stare, found Sherlock's and he intwined their fingers. Sherlock squeezed, glancing at John out of the corner of his eye with the barest shadow of a smile.

Mr. Watson watched them, his blue eyes - so much like John's - taking in their interlocked hands, the little shared look, their proximity... It hurt, though not in a bad way; it reminded him of himself and his wife back when they first got together. It seemed John and Sherlock were totally and completely attached to one another. They were like that now, and they were like that since they first met. Finally he sighed. 

"John, are you happy?" 

"Yes, dad. And before you ask how much, I'm going to answer for you. I'm the happiest I've ever been and it's all because of Sherlock. So please, if you're going to throw me out-" 

Mr. Watson stopped john there. "No, son, I'm not going to do that." 

Their mother peeked in through the door at them, listening and watching. She caught her husband's eye and then nodded, stepping back with the barest hint of a smile. Then the door closed. "If being together with Sherlock is what makes you happy then I'm not going to force you apart. I'm... This will take time for me to completely accept. But for now..." He looked over at Sherlock, eyes and voice serious. "Don't you dare hurt my boy. Understood?"

Sherlock squeezed John's hand a little tighter and nodded politely. "I wouldn't dream of it, sir. Hurting John would be like tearing off one of my own fingers." He managed a weak laugh and looked up to meet Mr Watson's eye. "I assure you, sir, John is as safe with me as he is with anyone else."

"Good." Mr. Watson seemed satisfied with that answer, but it was acceptable. Just like Harry, this would take time to sink in for he and his wife. With a nod, he stood up and left the two in peace.

"I'm just glad neither of us got thrown out or injured." John sighed, a little shakily. "He handled that batter than I expected. I suppose with my little outburst last night I never actually got to hear how they felt." John sighed and turned over so he was on his side and facing Sherlock. "You might as well stay. But I don't expect we'll be allowed to sleep in the same room tonight. You said last night to trust you... Did you have a plan?" He reached over and brushed Sherlock's hair back.

Sherlock laughed and sank back against the sofa. "Honestly? No. But at least they know the truth."

"And Dad now knows I lied about Molly." John frowned. "They reacted much worse when Harry came out. Then again, Harry didn't have a girlfriend. She was just sleeping around."

"Well I hope to god you're not." Sherlock snorted. John relaxed and leaned over for a quick peck.

"Thank you." With a smile, the shorter boy stood up and stretched. "Come on, I'll let you get set up in the spare room."


	16. Author's Note 2

Okay, just a quick update. I've been feeling short of muse lately and at the moment, I'm feeling rather ill. But I think I'm going to take advantage of this and finish writing/ upload the next chapter in the next few days. I just hope I haven't made you all lose interest because the respnse to this fic has been amazing, really!

So yeah, let me know if you're still reading this. If you want me to write out and explain the basic plot, just ask! I've been meaning to reply to your comments, but I'm too shy and I don't know what to say to such responses! But I do read them all and appreciate all the support I can get.

Thank you all! :)

\- Vancha


	17. Chapter 17

After the discussion with John’s father, the weather had prevented either of them from returning to school before eight on Sunday evening. John cursed the howling winds and spilling rain for the entirety of the weekend, complaining about the pitch possibly being flooded so close to finals.

He hadn’t really thought about his team much, not since storming off and throwing up at the edge of the pitch a few nights ago. Add that to Anderson’s comments and the fact that the entire team probably had their suspicions by now, John wasn’t sure he even wanted to go back.

But he had to. He was a hair’s breadth away from becoming team captain. Or was… Coach had probably changed his mind over the weekend.

“Stop worrying, John.” Sherlock’s voice brought him out of his reverie. John scrubbed a hand over his face and pulled out the key-card to his door.

“Sorry. Just a bit tired.” He managed a thin smile and pushed down the handle to his shared room. He could hear the shower running in the ensuite bathroom, indicating Greg was home. He probably hadn’t left judging by the state of the place.

“I’ll see you in class tomorrow, then.” Sherlock looked uncertain for a moment, grey-blue eyes sweeping up the length of the corridor on both sides. Then, before John could ask what the matter was, the taller boy swooped down and gave him a quick, chaste kiss.

If they were anywhere else, if the corridors hadn’t been entirely empty, John would have been a little annoyed at Sherlock’s boldness. Instead, he caught Sherlock by the sleeve of his ridiculous jacket and held on for a moment.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, John.”

Sherlock smirked and stalked off, all high cheekbones and long strides, and John stood by the door jamb watching him until he rounded the corner and disappeared.

A cough from behind made him jump.

“Greg!” When had the shower stopped? Greg just grinned back at him and padded over to his bed.

“You’re like a lovesick puppy, John, I swear.” He laughed and pulled out a pair of pyjamas, waiting until John had finally closed the door to get changed. “Anyway, how’d it go with your dad?”

“Very good, actually. Better than I thought.” John kicked his bag under his bed and flopped down face first. He re-arranged himself so that he was lying with his hands folded under the pillow and his feet – devoid of shoes and socks – tucked up by his side.

“Glad to hear it. Oh by the way, I’ve been checking up on Molly all weekend.”

“Oh yeah?” If Greg’s voice hadn’t been quite so apprehensive, John would have questioned his moral motives. Instead, he raised his head. “How is she?”

“I don’t know. That’s the thing.” With a sigh, Greg sat back against the wall and pulled a notebook and pen onto his lap. “She’s been quite… Distant?” He shrugged. “Can’t really explain it, but she’s not her usual self.”

John chewed his lip thoughtfully. “She’s been like that for a while now. Since the night of the Halloween party actually.”

“It’s that Moriarty kid isn’t it.” Greg’s hand was clenching and unclenching around the pen, and John feared for the bedsheets if he were to snap it. “He’s been hovering around her fucking nonstop.”

Whatever homework the older boy had started on was swiftly forgotten. He tossed it onto the floor and shimmied up the bed and under his duvet.

“Greg? Everything alright?”

“I’m fine. Just need an early night for once.” Greg mumbled, reaching out to flick off his lamp. “You should too, by the looks of it.” He turned over and pulled his covers close around him.

“…Alright.” If John was concerned by Greg’s sudden sullenness, he chose not to comment. Instead, he managed to wriggle out of his clothes, turn out his own lamp, and slip under the covers. He was soon lulled to sleep by the pitter-patter of rain against the window.

_His heart is beating far too fast. Sweating. Can’t speak. Scared._  
Everything is dark. Can’t see. He hears footsteps, slow and precise, each one a deafening as the next until he can’t take it. His hands, arms, legs, feet, all paralysed.  
Then it stops. Has it stopped? There is no sound now.  
A flick of a finger, a wisp of cold breath, a sudden gleam of red eyes.  
“Time to wake up, Rover.” Cold voice, sneering. “Time to die.”  
Hands, fire-hot, wrap around his throat. He can’t breathe, can’t raise alarm, can’t fight back. He sees the hands now, attached to short arms, can see the twisted grin on the face above him, open mouth full of sharp teeth, a forked tongue.  
Jim Moriarty. 

John gasped awake. His hands flew to his throat but nothing was there save for his rapid pulse. It was mostly dark still, the hint of dawn just about peeking through the curtains. Dropping his head into his hands, John took a few slow, deep breaths and kicked the covers off his sweating body.

“John?” He glanced across the room to see Greg staring at him, confused. “I thought the nightmares stopped. That sounded… Bad. You alright?”

“Ye-“ John stopped and cleared his throat. “I’m fine.” He wasn't though; he could still see Jim looming over him, eyes blazing, choking the air from his lungs. 

Greg didn’t mention the fact that John had been whimpering. He lay down again and checked his phone. “Just gone six. You should probably catch the next hour of sleep if you can, mate.”

Instead of doing so, John swung his legs out of bed and searched for pyjama bottoms to wear instead of just his underwear. “No, I won’t be able to sleep. I’m going to walk around for a bit, clear my head.”

“Okay… See you after.” Greg gave him one more concerned glance before settling back down. John slipped his feet into a pair of trainers and pulled an old hoodie over his t-shirt. He picked up his phone and left the room quietly, not wanting to wake the other boys in the dorm.

Right now, he just wanted Sherlock. But it was a school night and it was against the rules to enter anybody else’s room at this hour. He wasn’t going to risk getting caught by a self-righteous school prefect doing dorm patrol. Fucking twats.

What he needed right now was some fresh air. Maybe a jog around the outer courtyard would help.

*

Sherlock skimmed through Mycroft’s email with a scowl. While he didn’t exactly like asking his brother for help, he appreciated the information he was given. He clicked on the link to Jim’s student profile and records, starting with Briarwoods.  
  
Name: James Moriarty  
Active student: Yes  
Gender: Male  
Birthday: March 12th  
Full Term/Transfer student: Transfer – Lakelands Castle  
Overseas student: Yes  
If yes, specify country : Ireland, Republic Of

  


So far so obvious. Next, he clicked on the records from Lakelands Castle. Time to find out the reason for his transfer.  
Student average grade: A-  
Dorm partner: No, single room  
Reasons for transfer (if any): N/A  
  
Sherlock growled, pushing the laptop away for a moment. Under this, however, he discovered his dear old brother had provided him the reason. Oh the government had its perks sometimes.  
  
‘Sherlock, as you are quite aware, Jim Moriarty’s previous school did not provide the reason of his transfer. After many phone calls with people in high places, I can give you that information. I am trusting you not to go running about with this information, and to keep the source of it (that being me) a secret.  
I believe Moriarty to be a deceiving boy with a rich past. I implore you not to do anything particularly stupid, dear brother, for this boy is more dangerous than he seems. The information in brief that I have found is that there was an incident at the school, with several fires, students going missing for days, and a teacher dropping out for no apparent reason. The worst of these incidences was the death of a student, the details of which simply stated 'sudden death'. However, all suspicions including my own point to Jim.  
Jim Moriarty was held accountable on all these charges, though with no evidence other than a few eye witnesses under the age of 18, the only thing that could be done was to suspend and/or transfer him. That latter, as you know, was the decision.  
This boy could simply troubled, perhaps, but after you explained about Miss Hooper’s brief captivity, I have no doubt that he is behind it.  
As for the safety of John Watson, I encourage you to keep an eye out on him. If you can, keep him at a distance from Moriarty. There is more to this boy than meets the eye, Sherlock, and I have my own suspicions about him that for certain reasons, I cannot mention here.  
Stay safe and don’t get into trouble, Sherlock. I’ll be in touch.  
-MH

Sherlock shut his laptop and checked the time. Half past six. He sighed, letting all that information digest for a moment, before standing and changing into his uniform. He hadn’t slept for more than two hours, but there was no time for rest.

Sherlock had to keep John away from Jim at all costs. If he didn’t, he feared the worst was about to happen.

Giving his room a quick one-over, Sherlock finished dressing and slipped out the door. There was still another twenty minutes left until students began to wake for showers and breakfast and homework catch up. Maybe he could fit in a few stretches in private before the day began. He had swimming finals next month and needed to stay in top shape and performance levels. He knew full well his coach would disapprove of his sleeping habits, but Sherlock was well used to it.

Outside, it was just beginning to brighten. The rain from the previous night had clung to the grass and left small puddles on various areas of the ground. It was set to be another wet day, and Sherlock felt sorry for the rugby team. As much as he disliked most of them, he didn’t fancy the idea of getting wet or being tackled to the muddy ground. More importantly, he felt sorry for _John._

In the distance, Sherlock saw something move. He thought it was a stray dog that wandered into the grounds, but on closer inspection it was a person, sitting down on one of the old grey benches. For a split second, Sherlock had thought it was Jim skulking around again. Except Jim didn’t have sandy blonde hair and striped pyjama bottoms.  
Sherlock frowned. What was he doing out here at this hour?

“John?”

John whipped his head around to stare at Sherlock, wild eyed. He calmed down once recognition set in and his shoulders visibly slumped with the relief. Sherlock strolled closer and sat down next to his boyfriend on the bench.

“Sorry. Thought you were someone else for a second.” John looked _wrecked_ and Sherlock placed a cool hand on his forehead. “I’m alright, before you ask. I just had a nightmare.”

“You haven’t had a nightmare since-“

“Since we first started here, yeah. I know.” John exhaled and tipped his head back. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

John shook his head. “No.” After a few beats, he looked at Sherlock curiously. “Why are you up?”

“I sometimes get up for an early stroll. Especially on swim days. Helps clear my mind a bit.” Flexing his wrists a bit, Sherlock crossed his ankles. “You… You shouldn’t wander on your own, John.” 

John narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Sherlock never said that before. Usually he was all for independence. Why was he suddenly concerned for John walking about by himself?

“And why not? It’s the school grounds, Sherlock, not central London.”

“I know that.” Sherlock snapped, closing his eyes briefly; now wouldn’t be the time to get annoyed. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes and the air around them grew chilly. John shivered. Noting this, Sherlock unwound his green school scarf and looped it around John’s neck. “You can give it back to me later. I’m warm enough.”

“Thanks.” Burrowing down into the warmth, John flicked his eyes over Sherlock. They both looked as if they hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep.

“Sally has a new boyfriend. Anderson’s not happy about it, so expect him to be acting the fool this evening.”

“I thought they were doing each other?” John frowned. An angry Anderson was never fun to deal with, especially not lately.

“They were.” Sherlock smirked, tempted to make a joke about Anderson’s probable lack of performance in the bedroom. He caught John’s eye and they both collapsed into fits of giggles. John knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking. 

It was brighter by the time they stopped. John stood up and held a hand out to Sherlock. Nobody was quite up yet, and they were hidden by trees anyway. Sherlock took it and allowed John to haul him to his feet.

“Sherlock-“

Sherlock cut him off quickly.

“It’s because I worry, alright? There’s people here school who don’t care if you get hurt, John. And I don’t like the thoughts of you walking around when they could be lurking around.”

“I play rugby, Sherlock, I know how to defend myself.”

“That’s not the point, John.” Sherlock tugged him behind a skip and backed him up against the wall. “There _are_ dangerous people in this school. You know who I mean. And…” He paused, wetting his lips. “I told your father that you’re safe with me. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

His hands had found their way to John’s face, cupping it in such an uncharacteristic and affectionate way. Usually this sort of stuff was confined to the bedroom. John blinked slowly up at him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

There were things Sherlock wanted to say to John, things about Jim and his real fears about John’s safety around the cretin. But if he did, John might think he was being smothered and that’s not what Sherlock wanted. He wanted to protect John by all costs, yes, but it would be far too dangerous to tell the truth. John would only go after Jim and confront him himself. That wasn't going to happen.

They stayed liked that until doors could be heard opening.

“Just promise me, John, that you’ll keep vigilant at the very least.”

“Yeah. Yeah okay.” John nodded and Sherlock dropped his hands (and definitely didn't caress his cheek while he did so.) They were still hidden from view by the skip, so John leaned up and kissed Sherlock soundly on the mouth. “Come on. You go get some breakfast and I’ll go get dressed. Meet you in English in an hour.”

With a gentle smile, John squeezed Sherlock’s hip and left, passing by a few first years on their way to the breakfast hall.

*

Molly Hooper’s second favourite class was English, after Biology. She loved Shakespeare, poetry, media studies, writing… It helped her escape from the world. She was also a stickler for romance, and often dreamed of being the tragic heroine of a Mills and Boon novel, saved by a handsome man she could call her hero.

Of course, it was all just fantasy in the end.

Instead of going to class with her usual cheery smile and gusto, Molly kept to herself and blended in with the other students in the hall. She stopped outside the classroom, feeling her mobile buzz in her pocket. Checking for teachers, she pulled the phone out and flipped it open.

_New Message: Jim – 09:00 am  
Four days, Molly darling. Time is ticking on. Remember my deal. J x_

Keeping a straight face so as not to arouse suspicion, Molly shoved her phone back into her pocket. John came ambling down the corridor then, bag in hand and face red from running.

“Hey Molly!”

“Oh, John!” That didn't sound too much like a squeak, did it?

The bell rang out and students began to file into the classroom. Saved by the bell, Molly thought. She gave John a quick, put-on smile and slid inside ahead of him, moving quickly to her seat on the opposite side of the room. 

She felt like the biggest traitor in the world.


End file.
